The King's Agent (45 page)

“How strange I feel,” Battista said with a low, enraptured voice. “Can this harm us, do you think?”

Aurelia smiled. “No, we have naught to fear.” She would not attempt to explain what he could not begin to fathom, instead allowed space for a thought of gratitude for his presence. “It is the trap of Paradise. Those who protect the painting knew perfection itself could waylay any would-be thief.”

Battista hovered closer, and she tingled at his nearness.

To love beyond substance ... no emotion as powerful existed. They glimpsed what might lie in the beyond, and the power of it—of what would continue to survive between them—enveloped her. Her heart thudded as Battista leaned down, the brilliance of him drawing ever closer. It was not a kiss but a merging, a sensual overlapping of their beings, and she basked in the perfection of it.

If this were eternity, Aurelia would gladly surrender to it. And yet she could not.

She pulled away, one hand caressing the sharp planes of his face, her hand tingling with the feel of his skin.

Together they turned, feet moving upon the steps once more, aiming for the grayness of the long, narrow archway ahead.

As they passed through it, into what seemed to be a shadow, they found only more light, only the faintest silhouette of a passage visible, one stretching out to blinding infinity, or so it appeared. Aurelia thought it no more than a hallway, long and narrow with a low vaulted ceiling above her head, all of pale stone, the
pietra serena
of Michelangelo’s Giant. Panels of some type of glass picketed the ceiling, intensifying the power of the light. The scent of the ocean dissipated, replaced by a clear freshness ... cleansed perfect air. Aurelia stepped forward eagerly, progress instantly stymied by Battista’s hand upon her shoulder.

“Hold,” he insisted. “I am not sure this is the way.”

“It is, Battista. I am certain,” Aurelia argued. “It is a long passage, but I believe I can see its end.”

“I see nothing, not even the floor.” Battista held her, bending low, eyes squinting in the light. “It is too bright.”

With a gentle but insistent flinch, she shook his hand off, moving forward.

“Aurelia, wait!” he called with irritated doggedness, but she did not yield.

She took one step and then another, slippered feet finding solid ground, smooth and cool through the thin soles of her shoes.

“See, Battista.” She turned back with a grin. “This is the way.”

Battista followed with nagging caution. “Slow down, Aurelia. Be sure before you step.”

She moved another pace, her right foot leading her onward ... to nowhere.

For a split second, her foot fluttered into nothingness. Her mind screamed for retreat, but her body responded too slowly. She caught a flash of black abyss, receding darkness, below; just ahead, the barest glimpse of a white square of tile floor. Aurelia toppled forward, plunging into the square chasm. She threw her arms out, thrust her body forward.

Her feet found nothing, but her ribs collided with a hard, sharp edge and she grunted in pain as her breath expunged from her lungs. Kicking her legs, pressing up on her elbows, a low guttural hum of effort rumbling in her throat, she pushed herself over the edge. Panting, she flopped onto her back, quivering with relief as all her weight rested safely on the floor once more.

Tilting her head up without rising, she looked at Battista. “I am sorry,” she said penitently. “I allowed my own eminence to make me brash.”

“Are you all right?” Battista rushed forward, heedless to the pitfalls they now knew hid within the light, drawing as close as he dared.

“Stay back, Battista.” Aurelia’s became the voice of caution. Rubbing away the ache in her midsection, heart quaking beneath her fingers and the thin layers of fabric, she eased up to her feet. “I am fine.”

Concern set at ease, Battista rammed fisted hands on his hips, stabbing her across the distance with a withering look. “You cannot move headlong,” he chastised. “It may be Paradise, yet it is fraught with danger still.”

But already Aurelia looked ahead. “I know, I know. But ...” She held up a hand with her plea. “But I think I have seen something meant to be seen.”

His face crinkled with irritation and confusion. “What? No! Stop!” he demanded as she stepped forward.

“Wait, please. Give me but a minute.”

With a wary eye to the floor, fixedly chary of its traps, Aurelia inched forward, Battista’s voice no more than the sluice of fluttering wind at her back. She needed only to progress a few paces when the object became clear, its form at least, if not its purpose.

Aurelia stood before it, head tilted, hands crossing upon her chest as she studied it.

The full-length mirror was oval in shape, set on a pedestal of the same glittering gold that rimmed the glass, connected to the frame by two side axles. At its current pitch, one angled downward, she saw naught but her legs, from the knees down. Stepping forward, she reached out and pushed the top backward. It moved with far greater ease than she expected and it swung backward, out of her hand, angled upward now at the same degree it had pointed downward.

With a flash of lightning, the glass caught a beam, pummeling straight down, directly upon the mirror, in a tight, small circle. The light shot from the glass, across the room. Like a hummingbird rushing from one blossom to the next with frenetic need, the ray bounced off another glass, and then another, until a zigzag beam snaked its way through the room, defining it and laying a path from where Aurelia stood to the end of the corridor and an arched threshold.

“I’ll be damned.” Battista’s grudgingly mystified snip made her smile.

Aurelia tried to erase the grin from her lips as he made his way cautiously to her, but she failed miserably. Battista possessed the good grace to snicker as he arrived at her side, though not without a small, petulant shake of his head. He reached out, wiping the sweat off her forehead, wiping his hand on his own soaked-through jerkin.

“You are a lucky lady.” He bussed her clean skin as he removed the thick leather jacket, dropping his favorite garment to the ground with a sorrowful expression. “Lead on,
cara.
”

Though the crisscrossing beam of light illumined the floor and the square holes spattered throughout, they made their way with slow caution. At the verge of the arch, Battista stepped ahead.

“Let me b—”

His words shriveled on his tongue and he stared at her bug eyed, mouth agape.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” She grabbed onto his arm, fingers digging crescents in the skin so little protected through the thin, light linen of his flounced sleeve.

But he ignored her fright, covering her hand with his, face softening with lucid rapture.

“I have never seen you more beautiful,” he proclaimed, though somehow sounding strangely unconvinced. “From the moment I saw you, I thought you the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but now ...”

He shook his head, his expression one of such worship it pained her to see it.

Aurelia smiled tenderly. “It is just the light.”

“Perhaps.” He took her hand in both of his. “But you are far brighter than I. It looks as if the light comes from you. From here.”

He placed one hand on her stomach, and she trembled, at the touch and the intuitive notion.

She lifted his hand, urging him forward with unfeigned curiosity. “Look ahead, Battista. What lies there?”

Just beyond the portal more light glowed, but of a far more tangible form.

They stepped across the threshold and onto a square landing that creaked at the intrusion of their weight. Instantly the light—perfect globes of it—encircled them in two rows, each moving in opposite directions.

Aurelia stood with her back to Battista, their eyes swirling in their heads as they struggled to focus on the spheres hovering around them at waist height.

“I think there are twelve of them!” she cried, raising her voice over the harsh whoosh, for each sphere sizzled with vibrant energy.

“
Sì
. Torches come up from the floor. I can just barely make out the bases and their tracks.” Battista twirled round, as if he danced with the lights, all focus intent on first one and then another down the rows. “But there is room for thirteen. There is an empty space in each row. Watch.”

Aurelia did, turning as he did, her movement allowing her eyes to focus better. At one position, one of thirteen, as the line of lights twisted about, the two spaces created an opening, aligning to provide a gap large enough for them to pass through, were they ready. There it was and there it went, the instant of escape coming and going before their reaction.

As if to taunt them, as the space revealed itself, it quickly vanished and the movement hurried—the torches spinning more and more rapidly. Aurelia shut her eyes, rubbing against them with the heels of her hands, feeling dizzy and nauseous with the effort to focus on them.

“We have to jump through!” Battista cried.

Facing the far side of the room, no more than inches away from the radiant orbs, he pulled her before him, his hands poised at the small of her back. Hot air buffeted them, a blistering breeze forcing their eyes to close in defense, sending their hair flying back away from their faces.

“Wait for it!” Battista cried, his voice harsh in her ear, hands tensing against her. Aurelia’s eyes crossed as she watched the two openings draw together.

“Almost ... almost ... now!”

Her body lurched; he shoved her forward from a half step behind. Aurelia’s body moved faster than her feet and they tangled in her skirt, fabric tearing with a rasping rip, pulling her down, and Battista with her. She cried out in pain as he landed on top of her, her healing left arm crushed beneath.

Battista rolled off, but she could not rise, could only curl into a ball as she tucked the throbbing limb to her.

“
Dio mio,
” Battista cursed, “I am sorry, so very sorry.”

Aurelia shook her head, biting back the sob of pain clamoring for release. “It is not your fault, Battista, but mine.” She turned round and sat, still clutching her arm in her lap. “Or rather these damned skirts.”

Battista’s mouth formed a perfect O. “I have never heard you curse, Monna Aurelia,” he teased her with a smirk.

She managed a pale imitation of it, no more.

“Give me those damn skirts.” He reached beneath the top layer of muslin and grabbed onto her chemise, the torn opaque fabric hanging offensively. With one hard tug, he finished detaching what had already unraveled with the fall. With his teeth and his hands, he created wide strips of cloth and proceeded to wrap one piece around her wrist; tying the other into a loop, he reached out to sling it about her shoulders.

“No.” She held him with her good hand. “I cannot continue so encumbered. The wrapping will have to do.”

Battista eyed her skeptically. “Very well,” he acquiesced, tucking the remainder of the fabric into the satchel slung upon his back.

Sitting back on his knees, he studied her. “For all your pain, my lady, you truly grow more splendid with every step we take.”

Aurelia tipped her head at him. “There is no nee—”

“No.” He stopped her with a raised hand and a puzzled look. “I do not mean it as cajolery. You’re changing, I vow. You are becoming more ethereal with every step we take.”

Aurelia bit her lip and swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “You grow more tired and fearful,” she quipped with forced gaiety. “It is naught but the extreme circumstances of our situation.”

“No,” he said again. “I would swe—”

But Aurelia allowed him no further discourse, struggling to gain her feet, knowing he would stop to help her. Together they stood, clothing drenched, pupils reduced to pinpoints in the brightness, and surveyed their surroundings.

Beyond the swirling lights, the room opened to another flight of stairs. Aurelia rushed to and onto them, leaving behind the penetrating discussion.

With each step, the blazing light grew brighter, scorching a harsh, painful glare upon their eyes. Battista rummaged in his rucksack, pulling out more of her chemise, tearing it once more into strips. Holding her with a hand, he wrapped one thin layer around her eyes, the other about his own, creating a thin buffer between their eyes and the glare, without diminishing their vision. Sight protected, they continued on, rounding the spiral staircase, reaching another landing.

“Not again,” Battista grumbled, shoulders slumping, as they examined their environment.

They stood in yet another room without an egress, a small chamber of nothing more than two short walls on the sides and one wide wall at the back, another puzzle to solve.

But even as he moaned against it, his mind chewed upon it. As they inched forward and removed the cloths from their eyes, the details upon the huge back wall revealed themselves.

Separated into four distinct panels, each panel bore the likeness of the same man, that of Jesus Christ or, at least, what the world accepted as his likeness. A penetrating blue gaze stared at them from a serene and bearded face, smooth and wavy hair curtained the almost-delicate features.

A decorated tile lay centered on the floor in front of each panel, one all too familiarly etched with the cross and the coil.

Battista turned to Aurelia, her tanned skin shimmering with the rich amber of a topaz, eyes bright as a fresh meadow, her face set in a bitterly amused mien, a mirror of his own deliberation.

“A choice must be made,” he said needlessly.

“It is more than a choice,” she agreed. “It is a test.”

“A test?”

“Sì.”
She inched closer to the etchings and he followed. “A test of faith.”

Larger than life, the figure at the forefront of the pictures towered above them; they bent their necks to look up at the identical faces. But the setting of each differed greatly.

“It is your test,” Aurelia whispered, the hushed words full of demand. “It is not for me to decide.”

He scrunched his face at her. “Why not?”

She placed a hand on his shoulder and the warmth and vitality of it reached deep to his core.