Capitolo 41
Capitolo Quarantuno
Ravenna froze, Marco’s words not making any sense. They reached her ears, but her mind rejected them, refused to piece them together. She inhaled sharply, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Marco.
He’d betrayed them.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be real. Marco stared at her, coldly triumphant. A gasp worked its way up her throat, but she pressed her lips together, swallowed it down.
She mustn’t show any weakness.
The pope took a step toward her, his head tilted, fingertips pressed together.
Guards stood off to the side, short swords and bows drawn.
Behind them, Ravenna could just make out Saturnino astride his destrier, completely unaware of what was happening on the platform.
She wanted to cry out to him, but he was too far, and her voice was no match for the rabid mob who chanted his name at the top of their voices.
Cavaliere Saturnino! Cavaliere Saturnino!
It was up to her, and she was alone.
Her magic coiled tight between her ribs, readying to spring out of her.
Ravenna held on to her control by a thread—if she unleashed the magic too early, the guards would shoot their arrows.
She gripped the mallet, her hand fully concealed in her sleeve.
This was her only advantage, and she would only have one chance to strike.
One chance to destroy the pope’s chain mail.
It glinted at her in the dying light, an inch of it visible underneath his flowing robes.
“So,” the pope said quietly, drawing closer. “You are the one who has caused me so much trouble.” He angled his body toward Marco but kept his pale blue gaze fixed on her. “Did you bring me what else I asked for?”
Marco let out a piercing whistle as the spectators jumped to their feet, ribbons fluttering wildly. A thunderous choir of euphoric yelling rose into the sky, near deafening. Ravenna chanced a look over the pope’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of Saturnino, the tip of his lance bloody.
A whoosh of air escaped her. He’d won.
“What’s happened?” the pope asked, his back to the tournament proceedings.
“Cavaliere Saturnino gouged out the Duke of Urbino’s eye,” said one of the guards. “He’s bleeding all over the ground.”
“Good, I don’t want anything to happen to my statue,” the pope said, his voice the clean cut of a scythe.
Ravenna flinched, her eyes flicking to Marco. The fate that awaited Saturnino horrified her. Turned to stone and kept in a locked room for the amusement of a single man. She glowered at Marco, a keen feeling of hatred filling her. “How could you?”
“Easily,” he said, beckoning to someone over her shoulder. “His Holiness will have his statues returned to him, and I alone will remain human, without the constant vigilance and interference of the others.”
There was a subtle note in his tone that was hurt and petulant. A little boy who felt wronged.
“You’ll need—” Ravenna broke off, the words caught at the back of her throat. Horror bit into her skin, sharp claws that pinched her nerves. She had almost mentioned the courier, who Marco didn’t know about. He only knew that she could provide a wizard, but she hadn’t specified who it was.
He looked at her narrowly, frowning slightly, as if trying to puzzle out a riddle. “His Holiness is providing the use of his wizard.”
Ravenna didn’t let it show, but she was reeling.
The courier had betrayed her. Why else would he agree to perform the spell for just Marco?
But that didn’t make sense. If his intent was on tricking her, then why give her a mallet?
She thought quickly—there had to be a moment for her to act, something she could use to her advantage.
Two people brushed past her, carrying a wooden trunk by its brass handles. Ravenna clenched her jaw at the sight of it, rage skipping over her skin, rioting in her veins. Her magic rose high, and she felt its wild current moving swiftly through her. She inhaled through her nose.
Not yet, not yet.
Marco pulled at a chain around his neck, dragging it up and over the collar of his tunic, and produced a brass key.
Wordlessly, he handed it to one of the guards, who quickly unlocked the trunk.
The lid was lifted, and even wrapped in linen, blue light shone through the fabric.
It washed over Marco and His Holiness, giving each an eerie visage, like lost souls trapped in Pluto’s underworld.
A maniacal laugh tore out of the pope, fiendish and off-putting. Anger coursed through Ravenna. This was the man who had held her enthralled with empty promises. And she had believed him, had kept herself in line. But she was more than what the pope made her to be: scared, cornered, threatened.
Her fate was not yet decided.
She was not powerless.
Ravenna tightened her fingers around the handle of the mallet.
She felt the strength in her bones, in her muscles.
Years of manipulating stone had fortified her, given her drive, ambition, patience.
Her capacity knew no bounds. It was then, when the pope’s full attention was on the stones, his eyes wide with greed, that Ravenna launched herself forward, a quick prayer in her mouth.
With all her might, she swung at the pope.
He wasn’t expecting the strike.
Her aim was true.
The mallet hit his chain mail with a loud crack. A ripple of magic burst between them, the air hissing and sparking in a flash of unholy light. A loud clinking noise followed, and as the pope staggered, his chain mail slid to the ground with a loud thud.
He stared down at it, thunderstruck. Then he lifted his eyes to Ravenna’s, his a pale, violent blue, his lips parted and widened in a snarl, as if he wanted to tear her to pieces with his bare teeth. Ravenna straightened, her magic rising—
“Bring them out,” he said quietly. “Bring them all out.”
From behind one of the viewing stands, her family—parents, her twin brothers, and her youngest sister—were dragged out in chains to stand before the viewing platform.
Terror was stamped on every one of their faces.
Ravenna’s face drained of all color, and a nauseous feeling crawled over her skin, making it cold and clammy.
She forgot how to speak, she couldn’t think of anything to say.
Despair hung over her, clouding her vision.
“If anything should happen to me,” the pope said, “my guards and attendants will kill them. Whatever your plans were, Ravenna, they were doomed from the start.” He lifted his hand and made a signal to someone in the crowd.
A barrage of noise came from one end of the piazza, emanating from the direction of the cathedral.
It was a blend of trumpets and horns, of a thousand marching men, on foot, on horses.
The papal troops appeared, marked by the keys of Saint Peter and wearing plates of armor and surcoats in white and yellow.
They carried swords, pikes, halberds, and crossbows.
The pope had not come alone.
No, she thought. No, no.
Ravenna stared at the procession with mounting terror.
He had brought an army with him, and they had quietly surrounded the city while everyone observed the tournament.
They had infiltrated Florence’s gates, had marched through the streets, drawing closer and closer, waiting for the call from Rome.
The papal troops flooded the arena, racing for the viewing stands.
Skirmishes broke out through the piazza, weapons clashing.
Several troops seized Lorenzo de’ Medici and dragged him forward, but he fought like a wild man despite being outnumbered four to one.
His weapons were yanked out of his hands.
The guards pushed the politician onto his knees in front of the pope’s platform.
A high primal scream rose over the noise of clanging weapons and shouting. Movement from the corner of Ravenna’s eye drew her attention. It was members of the Luni famiglia frantically shoving and pushing, trying to reach Signor Medici.
Above all else, the spell demanded they protect Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Marco came to stand next to her, his attention fixed on the roiling crowd. Ravenna could guess who he searched for.
“The pope has threatened to kill Signor Medici,” Ravenna said suddenly. “And the spell forbids—”
“He won’t kill Lorenzo,” Marco said. “Not that they know that.”
Ravenna glanced down.
All four had made it to the front of the podium: Signor Luni, his face gashed and bruised, his right arm hanging at an odd angle; Fortuna, her lovely gown shredded, fingers dripping blood; Signora Luni limping after them, her hair in disarray.
And then Saturnino, close-lipped and furious, his cheek slashed, shirtsleeves missing. He gripped a pike, the tip stained red.
Across the pandemonium, the terrified crowd, the clink of armor, the sound of hundreds of boots thundering up and down the piazza, Ravenna and Saturnino locked eyes. Above them, the sky had turned a dusky purple, the color of a bruise.
He was running out of time.
Tears scalded her cheeks.
“Drop your weapons,” the pope said. “Or I’ll have my bowmen shoot.”
Lorenzo de’ Medici locked his jaw, the line of his back unyielding, even with the number of arrows aimed at his heart. His clothing lay in tatters on his frame, his dark, chin-length hair damp with sweat.
“I would do what he says,” Marco said.
The entire Luni famiglia visibly reacted to seeing Marco standing alongside the pope, looking down at them with the smug smile of a bully who’d stolen a priceless jewel.
Signor and Signora Luni were both struck dumb to have been outmaneuvered, Fortuna let out a harsh, bitter laugh, while Saturnino …
Saturnino’s face was murderous, cold, carved in hell frost.
But they dropped their weapons.
The pope turned to Ravenna with a sly grin. “Did you think that was all?”
Ravenna held her ground. “What more of hell did you bring with you, Your Holiness?”