The Shades of Time (45 page)

Reverend Mother
ignored him and went on, "What I do not understand, gentlemen, is
why we still have perturbations. With Carlos' path to Holy Roman
Emperor unchecked, we should have seen a reversal in the
oscillations..." she stared pointedly at Jules and demurred,
"…unless, of course, your mathematicians were wrong?"

Shrugging the
man said, "It is still an inexact science."

"Hmm, yes, I
suppose it is." To Andreas she spoke so softly he strained to hear
the words, "Thank you. At least she was not alone at the end," but
the look she leveled at him chilled him to the marrow.

Jules barely
had a chance to mutter, "Madam…" before the image faded. Andreas
knew the collective sigh of relief was not imagined.

****

"We destroyed
the avatar as you requested." Matteo sounded relieved, for good
reason. For him, it was an insurance policy that Andreas could not
return to that time and place. With a sigh he asked, "Are you sure
about this, Andy?"

Matteo pulled
him into an embrace but he shrugged the man away, the thought of
his superior extending any kindness turning his blood cold. He
zipped the small valise and slung it over his right shoulder.

He and his
conscience had a journey of discovery ahead of them.

"I'll be here
when you want me, boy." The pain and sadness in the man's voice cut
like a knife.

Andreas shouldered his way through the door without a backward
glance. The whispered,
I love
you
, trailed behind him, a ghostly shadow
of the passion he'd once felt but would never experience
again.

Take this,
Andreas. Keep it safe.

What is it?

The way
home.

He fingered the
strange device, the workmanship exquisite, each jewel in the
crucifix cut to perfection.

Are you
sure?

Yes.

He choked back the words. She could never know the depth of
his despair. Instead he asked,
Are you
strong enough?

Yes, Andreas, I
am strong enough for this.

The ancient
Amalfi coast stretched with torturous curves to his left and right,
the villages climbing the cliffs with wanton disregard for gravity
and the passage of time. He leaned over the abutment and wondered
at his fate and the fate of his world. If he cast this stone, would
the ripples extend beyond his own time and space, to crash with
unknown force against some distant shore? Or would he and all he
knew fade into shadows, forever ephemeral, insubstantial…

In his heart he
realized he cared little for the fate of a world that had already
eaten itself alive with hatred. History would play out
directionless, immune to the petty concerns of such like him and
the others.

She had placed
the ultimate test into his hands and bade him do with it as he
willed.

Mounting the
scooter he glanced to the south, the narrow road beckoning.
Hesitating, he palmed the crucifix, the metal burning red hot into
his rough palm, and made the sign of the cross, then threw the
device into the waiting ocean below.

****

"Boy, it's good
to see you."

Nico tried to
hide his dismay. Cosimo lay on the large bed, his body wasting away
with age and infirmity and grief. The news had arrived long before
Nico'd been well enough to travel. Paulo had managed to spirit him
to a neighboring duchy, one friendlier to the Medici family, where
they had wintered and he'd regained his strength.

"I came as soon
as I could, Papà." He sat on the edge of the bed and held his
father's hand, the skin parchment thin and brittle to the touch. As
brittle and cold as his heart.

The old man's
eyes held a world of sorrow and regret. They spoke quietly of
nothing in particular until Cosimo's lids lowered and he appeared
to drift into sleep. Nico tucked the quilt about his father and
rose to leave.

Huskily, Cosimo
said, "Wait."

"Yes,
Papà?"

His father's
eyes darted to the window, the light growing dim with the setting
sun. "I want you to tell the gardener to bring in fresh herbs for
dinner."

"I'll tell
Tomas to…"

"No, you, my
son." He shot Nico an imperious look. "Now."

Shrugging, Nico
mumbled "All right," and left the bedroom. He took the stairs
leading to the rear of the villa and exited through the kitchens.
The well-tended gardens looked the same, though he had trouble
recalling where on the estate the vegetables might be located.

The slight
downhill slope taxed his injured leg. He would probably walk with a
limp for the rest of his days, though he could still sit a horse
well enough. His fighting days, such as they'd been, were clearly
over. Feeling as old as Cosimo looked, he wandered about the
grounds, enjoying the late evening breeze.

In the shadow
at the base of a hill he saw a small figure bent over a mass of
greenery. Not wishing to proceed further he shouted, "Excuse me. My
father wishes herbs brought in for dinner." Feeling foolish, he
realized Cosimo hadn't said what kind so he hastened to add, "He
didn't say what."

The woman rose
and pushed a long dark braid off her shoulder. With her face still
in shadow, she brushed her hands on her skirts but made no
indication she understood the request.

Moving closer,
he said with more irritation than he intended, "Did you hear me…?"
but stopped abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest.

She was the
same, yet different, painfully thin, her pale skin stretched over
prominent cheekbones, dark shadows lining her eyes with emotions he
couldn't begin to describe. She'd pulled her glorious mane into a
tight braid, accentuating the planes of her face and giving her an
austere, almost untouchable demeanor.

Watching him
limp forward, he could see the hope and fear race across her face,
unsure of her reception, of his feelings after all that had
happened.

He had refused
this fantasy, skillfully locking it away, content to remain an
empty shell. Yet she had defied fate, making a choice, a sacrifice
he would never understand but would spend the rest of his life
proving that she had not chosen in vain.

He scooped her
into his arms, crushing her to his chest.

She whispered,
"Are you strong enough…?"

"Yes," he
husked, his heart in his throat, "I will be strong enough," then
paused to inhale the scent of honey and lavender that was uniquely
Veluria before murmuring, "…if you tell me what you want."

"You, Nicolo
de' Medici. I want you…"

~The End~

ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

Nya Rawlyns
has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay.
When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or
two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening
to the voices in her head.

Website:
http://www.idancewithwords.com

Her published
works include:

Cajun Gothic
(Blood Haven)

The Strigoi
Chronicles: Penance, Fane, Michel

Acid Jazz
Singer (Hunger Hurts)

Finish Line
(novella)

Dance Macabre
(short story)

Skin

The Guardians
of the Portals

Sculpting
David (Red Sage, novella)

Hunter’s
Crossing (Red Sage)