“Don’t be flippant. How much frankincense do we have?”
“Half a jar.” I fetched it from the reagent shelves, being careful not to trip over the floppy ends of my hose.
“Scatter it over the pyre and then ignite it.”
With the ring to symbolize sunlight and fire, pyrokinesis was as easy as snapping fingers. I pointed my thumb at the tinder…the gesture…the Word…smoke curled. Then flames. I made the twigs and chips around it blaze up also.
The Maestro muttered something flattering. “Now you must extinguish all other lights and close the shutters.”
I admit that I was feeling skeptical. Perhaps my endless efforts to foresee in the crystal had made me give up hope of ever developing prophetic skills of my own. I should have remembered that I was skilled with the tarot and had been making progress in oneiromancy. I extinguished all the lamps and candles and returned to sit cross-legged on the hearthrug.
“Build up the pyre,” the Maestro said. “Use lots of wood, because this may take a while. Then just watch. Let your thoughts wander. We have all night.”
“I’ll be well cooked in five minutes in this heat,” I grumbled.
Sitting staring into a fire by night is the most soothing experience I know. As a child I had sat for hours like that, in the tiny single room I shared with my mother, whiling away the tedium of winter nights. As predictor of my future the fire had served me poorly, for I had never foreseen the Maestro or my hands massaging away an ache in the doge’s back. To a bored-and often hungry-boy, the glowing embers had illustrated great ships venturing out over the seas, bound for wonderful places. I had seen myself aboard them, strong and handsome, swaggering with a sword, massacring pirates, bowing before great ladies-although ladies had not interested me much back then. Now, I thought, I should be able to find Violetta fairly easily, but I searched the blaze in vain for her.
At first the flames were too unsteady but as the fire burned hotter, coals began to glow and images grew crisper. Unburned wood became stone and the brightnesses between morphed into caves and crypts and passages, leading deeper into labyrinths of infinite mystery. It seemed that my fancy should be able to penetrate inside those fiery voids, exploring around corners and onward, deeper into the fire; that I, shielded and made invisible by the Guise of Night, could wander unharmed within those vast caverns of heat. Stalactites of fire hung on every side, draperies of flame enclosed me in a world of red and black, but I strode freely on, seeing wonders all around. Glowing basilisks and demons on guard could not see me or challenge my right to pass into a truly magical world.
In my dreaming progress I saw sphinxes and cherry trees, galleons and gladiators, but I did not linger until I arrived at a dark alcove, a hallway on my left, vast and cryptical, where stood two men I could not identify, for they were men of flame that wavered as flames will. One was gold and the other red. Nor could I make out their voices through the busy crackling of the fire all about me, but I could tell that they were quarreling. Their dispute grew ever more agitated until Red suddenly charged, raising a weapon-a cudgel, I thought, from the way he held it. Gold leaped back and drew a sword. He tried to lunge, but Red struck his blade aside and closed with him. Two flames joined, Red and Gold striving for possession of the sword. Gold evidently lost, for he broke loose and tried to flee, but Red stabbed at his legs with the sword; he dropped to his hands and knees, and Red plunged the blade into his back. He collapsed, understandably. I caught a brief glimpse of Gold lying prone and the victorious Red standing over him before the tragedy vanished in a blizzard of sparks.
Somewhere far off I could hear my own voice angrily describing what I was seeing, responding to the Maestro’s questions as if they were intolerable distractions. The part of me that wandered through the inferno was unaware of him, preferring to admire the twisted columns of flame that supported the roof, unseen far above. This was not the Inferno of which Dante sang, but a metaphorical playground of the fire elementals. Faces watching me were not damned souls, for many smiled. Some I knew, but they were all unimportant for my quest, so I pushed on through them without response.
Now the floor tilted downward until I walked thigh-deep in a sea of flame. Waves ran through it, and at times ran through me also, so that I walked underwater, except that the water was fire. In the troughs, when my head was above the fiery sea, I saw a figure in the breakers, two figures contesting together, so I headed in their direction.
One was undoubtedly Neptune, the old man of the sea, easily recognizable by his flowing beard as the model for the statue in the courtyard of the Doges’ Palace. The other was a mighty horse-a seahorse, obviously-plunging and bucking amid the fiery foam. This was important and I watched until I was certain that Neptune was going to win the tussle before I resumed my journey.
Clear of the ocean again, I walked down a long canyon lined with an infinity of alcoves holding infinities of shelves, each bearing infinite fires. “This,” I declared, “must be the storehouse of all wisdom,” for some shelves burned with clear, pure golden light, and others with dark red evil. Clothed in flames and whirling sparks, many people moved to and fro along the central hall, veering off to explore alcoves, ever seeking whatever it was their hearts desired. One couple I followed, although they did not seem to notice me trailing them. The woman was of rare beauty and they walked together bravely, hand in hand.
The man cried out and fell; in that moment I recognized him as Nicolo Morosini, Eva’s dead brother. The woman reeled back from whatever it was that had struck him down and turned to flee. I stepped aside as she approached, but after her came a small but fearsome thing of evil, perhaps a spider, moving too fast for her. Like a cat it leaped upon her. I rushed to help, brandishing flame, but she succumbed before I reached her and then the thing, whatever it was, darted toward me. Now it was my turn to fly in terror. I ran as hard and fast as I could but it pursued, racing over the ground, a fiery scorpion on many tiny legs. It was gaining, gaining…
I cried out and the Maestro battered the pyre with the poker to shatter the visions and bring me back.
15
T he last relict logs collapsed in heaps of ash. Jumping awake, I squealed and almost fell over backward. I must have been sitting there for hours, for the wood had sunk to a bed of glowing coals. The real world seemed dark, cold, and unpleasantly solid. My eyes ached.
“Oh, well done, Alfeo! Well, well done!”
I could not recall the last time he had given me such praise, but I hardly registered it at the time. “What’d I say?”
“You don’t remember?”
I did, or at least I would when I had time to separate all the confused images, but I just shook my head. My throat hurt too much to speak.
“Wonderful things. Are you all right?”
I nodded, but thirst tormented me as if I had been eating salt. My legs were numb, my throat burned. I staggered to my feet, cotton hose slipping on the terrazzo. “Need a drink!”
“Of course. You go to bed. I’ll close up here.”
That was an unparalleled concession! I really must have done well. I had discovered a whole new talent.
“Yes.” I skidded and staggered across the room. The air out in the salone was probably as hot as ever, but felt like a welcome caress of cold after the atelier. Sweaty cloth clung to my skin. The big hall was dim, for only two lamps were lit, so it was the sound of a sword scraping from its sheath that stopped me, before I even saw the flash of the blade in front of me.
“Gesu!” Vasco’s startled face came into focus.
“Saints!” I croaked. “You back again?” I hauled off my hood.
“You?” He sheathed his sword. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”