The Blood Confession, page 13
"What charms are you considering imposing upon your guest this evening?" she asked, stretching from the divan like a sleepy cat. She stood and approached the dressing table where I sat, her face reflected beside mine in the mirror.
"I don't quite understand your fixation, Erzebet." I could not help but wince at this remark—how could she understand? She had no prophecy hanging like a noose around her neck.
"What do you mean, fixation? I simply want to look my best. It's been years since I've had my portrait done. It would be a shame for this one to pale in comparison."
"Indeed, it will not," she assured me, "but there is something else." She began pacing the small room restlessly. She reminded me of Kyzoni, but I knew better than to mention the resemblance.
"Are you worried about witchcraft, my dear?" I teased.
"No," she told me, her cheeks coloring. "It's just that you seem to think about your appearance all the time, always looking at your face in the mirror, always worrying. Why is that?"
"I just don't want things to change," I told her; this was as close to the truth as I dared admit, but it only made her more puzzled.
"Mari, you seem uneasy. I'll not be long tonight, I promise you." I turned from the glass to look at her. "Once the count returns to court you'll have more opportunity to wander the grounds. Please be patient."
"I know." She slumped into a chair close to me. "I just can't stop thinking about my parents. This could be my last chance to see them, after all."
"I'll not hear you talk about leaving. It's too dangerous."
"But can you blame me for worrying, Erzebet?"
"There is nothing you can do to help them now." My voice was a touch too loud. "I'm sorry, but I refuse to take any risks," I told her, softening. "Castle Bizecka is your new home, it's where you belong."
"How can it be my home if I'm locked in this tower all day?" She stood, backing away from me. "Can't you remember? This isn't really me. This is your gown, your jewels. The village is my home. It's the land of my birth, no matter where I may sleep."
"So, too, it shall be your grave," I hissed, but thought better of the words as soon as I said them. Her eyes flashed at me reproachfully.
"I'm sorry." I grasped her hands in mine. "You're a sister to me, Marianna. I would be alone in this world without you."
Perhaps it was the rare tears that glistened in my eyes, but her face softened upon me. Without a word, she touched the curls by my ear with a delicate finger, then pulled me close in an embrace. I breathed in the scent of lavender from her thick black cloud of hair.
***
That night I met briefly with the artist as he lounged with the count before a raging fire in the portrait chamber. I swept into the room in a gown of dark purple velvet, the rich color an excellent contrast to my smooth ivory skin. I could feel them both appraising my beauty as the eyes of my previous portraits exacted their own judgment upon my new, womanly form. I felt both exultant and afraid.
The count introduced me to Konrad, the artist. I was taken aback by how young he was, for I was used to posing for haggard old men. I had seen Konrad's paintings and knew his talent to be stunning, but his appearance was less so. His hair was long but unkempt, and his long arms protruded awkwardly from his rumpled jacket.
"Good evening, Erzebet," he said, his dark eyes darting from my face to the count, betraying his nervousness. "You are even more beautiful than the count described. I'm honored to paint the portrait of so elegant a lady." As he took my hand I noticed that his were rough and weathered, not the soft hands of aristocrats to which I was accustomed.
"A gift from your father," the count pronounced, handing me a small wooden box. I gritted my teeth in anger, but only smiled and curtsied in response to his offer.
Inside the box was a magnificent scarf of saffron silk. My fingers trembled as I rubbed the smooth fabric between my thumb and forefinger.
"It's Turkish," the count murmured, and chuckled devilishly.
"Their fabrics are very fine. I thought that you would appreciate this piece."
"It is beautiful," I uttered; I would not attempt to deny this, but the feel of the silk in my hands and the smug smile on the count's face made me boil with rage. This is the sin of wrath, I thought, remembering Sinestra's words. The thought of him reminded me of my own power, helped me to contain my rage.
"Konrad has brought a new painting for us to admire, Erzebet. I have told him of your love of art—though it seems most keen when you are the subject." The count laughed. I ignored him and took Konrad's arm, and he pulled me closer to a large, framed portrait propped against two high-backed chairs.
The portrait was of a young woman with skin pale and soft as flour and glossy, golden hair. She wore a simple cotton blouse, but the rest of her dress was undefined. It was her face that Konrad had focused upon, delicately bringing her to life with his paints. The sight of the young woman's face filled me with conflicting emotions—is she more beautiful than I am?—but it was the familiar gaze of her wide blue eyes that rendered me speechless.
"She looks like your mother, doesn't she?" the count said, suddenly close to my shoulder.
"The girl was a peasant in a small town in Italy," Konrad explained. "I bought her a meal so that she would allow me to paint her portrait."
"A meal well worth it," the count stated, bemused. "What do you think, Erzebet?"
"It does look like her," I said, and faltered. "Strange, isn't it, that someone else could have that face?"
"You must forgive my emotional daughter," the count explained.
"Her mother has been ill these many years." The count laid a heavy hand upon my shoulder; my flesh prickled at his touch.
"I can assure you, this was the face I saw," Konrad offered. "My paintings are truthful, if nothing else. I have had some very unhappy customers because of it."
"Many people don't want to see themselves truthfully," I murmured. "I have long wondered myself why my father has never commissioned his own portrait."
The count shifted uneasily, lifting his hand from my shoulder.
"It's no small feat to reveal yourself to an artist's scrutiny," Konrad stammered, "but I see that you have already done so with beautiful results." He gestured toward the paintings on the walls around us.
"Perhaps a touch of fantasy is necessary in art, at times." The count sneered. "After all, to catch the eye of an emperor, the one thing that is required is perfection."
Konrad opened his mouth to respond, but by the gleam in my father's eyes he realized that a response was not required. He bowed his head obediently. My eyes blurred for a moment as the count's words pierced me, like a needle sliding between my ribs. I could not bear to meet his gaze.
Perhaps this is how the countess felt, I thought. Never good enough.
XVII
Late that night, my return to the tower was labored, the saffron scarf clutched in my hand, the purple gown weighing me down. Despite my weariness, I paused near the doorway to my mother's chamber, listening intently to the low voices beyond the half-opened door. I wondered if they were still bleeding her, and what effect the bleeding could have had. Despite my curiosity, I could not will my stiff limbs to cross the threshold of that door. I continued down the hallway and dragged my velvet train up the spiral stairway.
The one thing that is required is perfection. My father's words echoed in my head. Entering the tower, I fought the desire to rush to the mirror in search of what imperfections the count might have detected in my face. I owed Marianna my attention now, more than ever. I could take up my treatments again, the next day.
"Are you asleep, Mari?" I asked the darkened chamber. The fire had burned to its last embers, and the chill nipped at my neck and arms.
"Dearest, are you all right?" I said in my sweetest tone. I moved to the silk divan and pulled back the fur cover—Marianna was gone.
"Your friend is not here," a low voice rumbled in the darkness— I jumped with recognition, and a hand reached out and grabbed my own.
"What happened? What did you do to her?"
"Nothing," the stranger assured me. "She is not my concern.
You are my only concern." His hand still clutching mine, he moved over to the hearth and lit a candle from the dying flames, placing it on the table in the middle of the room. I gasped in shock: he was real, he was real... this was the face I had seen, so long ago. I had often wondered if it was all a dream.
He smiled and lifted my hand, prying the silk scarf from my clenched fist.
"How lovely," he murmured, moving closer and drawing it around my neck, letting the silk brush slowly against my skin. The chamber was cold; he stood close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body on my flesh. He was taller than I was, with broad shoulders that I could have just rested my chin upon, in an embrace. In spite of my trepidation, I had to resist the urge to place my hand upon his chest.
"I must leave," I murmured. "I have to find her. I have to know that she's safe."
"She was gone when I arrived here," he said, and pulled me closer. "Besides, I was only looking for you. And now I've found you." His grasp was gentle—persistent, but not unpleasant. He wrapped me easily in his arms.
"Who sent you here?" I asked. "Shouldn't I at least be able to know that?"
"Of course, my dear," he said, smiling against my neck, "God sent me here."
"God sent you here?"
"Yes, of course. And He sent you here as well. And He made you beautiful. Then He gave you a falling star, and a prophecy."
"What do you know about the prophecy?" I breathed, my limbs suddenly rigid in his embrace.
"I know as much as you do." He lifted his head and looked straight into my eyes. "God sent me to you. God does all things. Isn't that what you've been taught?"
He brushed his hand against my cheek gently. For a moment my eyes fluttered, my vision blurred. I forgot about searching for Marianna; thoughts of her drowned in the low rumble of his voice.
"I've received your gifts," I told him.
"Yes, and have you enjoyed them? Have they made you think of me?"
"Yes, they have," I said, though the admission made my cheeks warm.
"Have you thought about the choice you've made? Between eternal life or an early death?"
"I didn't realize it was my choice to make," I said.
"And yet you've read the prophecy." He sighed mockingly, with an affectionate squeeze. "I expected more from you, truly."
"What? What did you expect?" I demanded, suddenly frustrated. I was tired of what people expected of me.
"It's just like a mortal human to read and remember only what is feared and to leave grand possibilities undiscovered." He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes shut, long dark lashes curling against his cheeks.
"Now tell me, Erzebet, what did your prophecy say?"
"It talked about an angel and a demon, and the angel and the demon predicted a child whose days will end quickly, or whose days will have no end. And that child is me."
"The words are written upon your heart, and yet you've never really thought about what they mean, have you?"
"How dare you!" I hissed, pushing his arms away. "I've thought about it every day since the moment I found it. Of course I've been afraid. It's made me feel like less of a person—less alive."
"But why? After all, the prediction is both good and bad: a child who will die young, or a child who will never die. And you've already made your decision, there."
"Yes, though I don't see why it matters. There is no such thing as living forever."
He looked at me again, steadily, his eyes inky black and glittering in the low light. He held my hand in his.
"I find that when someone is faced with a future they fear, they can either give up and blindly follow the path laid out before them, or find the strength to divert it. I've already told you that you have the power to decide. You are stronger than you realize."
"But it doesn't matter how strong I am." I sighed.
"Of course it does." He clasped me to him again and smiled. It was a beautiful smile; I basked in its warmth.
"I spent some time reading your spell book." He laughed. I pushed against his chest, trying to release myself, but his embrace only tightened.
"I thought that was what you wanted me to do—spells and magic. Isn't that what all of your gifts were telling me?" I asked, petulant.
"Perhaps you should make your messages more clear."
"No, you have done well. But there is another book you should consider. Now listen." He bent low to speak into my ear. "For the life of the flesh is in the blood: and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls: for it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul."
"Leviticus?" I whispered.
"You know your Bible well. Now think of this: the life of the flesh is in the blood." As he repeated the words I felt mesmerized, as if his voice were inside my head.
"You already know the power of blood," he said, stepping back and brushing his fingertips against the bodice of my gown. My belly ached in response; I knew that my blood was coming again, just as it did every month. The thought of it filled me with dread.
"Erzebet." He sighed, and cradled my face in his hands. "It hurts me to see you in pain."
"I feel like I am dying, slowly drained of life."
"Don't worry," he whispered, his lips close to my ear. "Think of what I've told you. We'll meet again soon." He released me, sinking back into the darkness without a sound.
As soon as I returned to my senses I tore from the chamber and hurried down the stairs, down the hall, lifting the purple gown from the floor, hoping that no one would notice the haste of my stride. I came upon Rowena in my bedchamber, spreading a fresh silk nightshift upon my bed.
"Rowena!" I cried, gripping her arms. "Marianna is missing— she's gone. Have you seen her?"
Rowena blanched, her skin the color of yellow cream.
"I thought you knew, child. I saw her getting ready to see her parents one last time. I tried to convince her not to go, but she was determined. I saw there was no stopping her, so I at least gave her food to bring to them, so that they might not starve. Please understand, Erzebet, they are her parents. She said she would be back tonight, as quickly as she could."
"How could she?" I gasped, shocked by her betrayal. "I was trying to keep her safe—everything I did was for her protection!"
"Erzebet, please sit—you look very pale. She didn't do this to upset you. I'm sure she'll be back."
"But how can she invite such risk?" My hands were shaking, and Rowena urged me to sit beside her upon the bed. "How can anyone take such a risk? There are so many things out there," I murmured. "There are so many things ready and able to harm us. I don't know how she can live without thinking about them all the time."
"Oh, Erzebet, do you really think that way?" she said, and rubbed my arms vigorously. "That's no way to live at all. Please, Erzebet, I will help you into bed. Marianna will likely run right to the tower when she returns."
"The tower," I breathed, holding a clammy hand to my forehead. "I will wait there for her."
I climbed the stairs back to the tower, the candle in my hand casting a shaky dance of light upon the stone walls. When I opened the door, I thrust the candle in first.
"Is anybody there?" I asked, but no one answered. The room the candle illuminated was empty; I was relieved that Sinestra would not be there to intrude upon Marianna's return. I lit a fire hastily before pulling a fur blanket over my gown and sitting in a chair to wait. I thought to pray for Marianna's safety, but could think of no words that sounded sincere. Only anger welled inside of me—for her uncertain fate and for mine.
"How could you be so cruel?" I asked God. There came no answer. I shut my eyes and imagined I saw stars falling, one by one, in streams of gold across a dark night sky.
I was torn from these visions by a rough bang at the door. I sat up, disoriented in the darkness. The flames in the hearth had died; the only light in the room was a pale silver glow from the full moon. The dark-haired soldier entered the room and stood over me, his face half lit with jagged shadows in the moonlight. I was so shocked at the sight of him that I felt sure I was dreaming.
"I found something on the road that may be of importance to you, young countess," he said, his rough voice waking me from my half-dream. He was no vision, after all. He let loose what appeared to be a large, lumpy sack from beneath his arm; it rolled to the floor with a thud. The blue cloak revealed Marianna, lying on the floor, her face covered in her hands.
I prepared to speak, but the soldier lifted his hand to silence me. "She came to no harm, I assure you, though she nearly did through no fault but her own."
Marianna gasped and began to cry, a high, keening wail. She rolled over on the floor at the soldier's feet and hid her face beneath her hair.
"See to it that she doesn't leave here under any circumstances—I will not be responsible for her again."
With these words he turned and left the room without looking again at the girl writhing upon the floor. I knelt at her side, pulling her hair from her tear-streaked face.
"I couldn't get to the house," she wailed. "I tried to but the Turks are heading straight for the center of town. The soldiers were there to ward them off, but there was so much fighting—I saw it." She winced, her eyes shut tightly, then moved her hands to cover her ears. "I cannot tell you what their screaming sounded like."
"We're lucky that you got out alive, we must all be relieved with that." I drew her close in a tight embrace; she shook against me with the force of her sobs.
You tried to leave me, I thought, but did not say aloud. After all that I have done for you, you tried to leave.
