Beautiful Blood

6

That night Rosacher dreamed of a cavernous room with a slight curvature to its ceiling, so long that neither end was visible. Upon the walls of the room flowed the black-on-gold patterns of Griaule’s blood, like the cryptic symbols written by God upon a serpent’s scales, seeming characters in a long-forgotten script. And perhaps it was the dragon’s bloodstream in which he stood, unaffected by its currents, breathing without difficulty, altogether comfortable and calm, for whenever he shifted about the patterns rippled and distorted as if his movement had disturbed a liquid medium. He tried to focus on the pattern, to track a single shape as it changed and changed again. To his bewilderment, one of the shapes straightened and grew larger, resolving into an anthropomorphic figure that approached him at a brisk pace. A man, judging by the size, yet Rosacher assumed him to be a preternatural creature. As the man drew near, Rosacher saw that his hands were wrapped in bandages and he was attired in a black suit with an unfashionably long jacket. Another bandage obscured the left side of his face and a slouch hat with its brim turned down shadowed his features, subduing a tangle of graying hair. There was no chair, yet he sat and crossed his legs as if there were a chair beneath him, one fashioned of the flowing black-and-gold blood.

“Hello, Richard,” he said at length in a grating voice.

Rosacher, startled to hear him speak, stepped backward, slipped and would have fallen had not the blood supported him, forming a cushion-like surface into which he sank.

“What is this place?” Rosacher asked, struggling to sit up—the pillowy stuff beneath him was so slick, he had difficulty achieving a stable position.

The man chuckled.

“We’re inside Griaule, are we not?” asked Rosacher, glancing about, searching for some further clue to substantiate the notion.

“In one way or another, we are always inside Griaule,” said the man. “On the brightest day, we are part of his shadow.”

This declaration bore the stamp of an oft-repeated phrase and Rosacher bridled at it, as he would at anything that smacked of zealotry.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“A messenger.”

“Have we met? You appear to know me.”

“We have a minimal acquaintance, yet I doubt you would acknowledge it. But I know you well enough, though I had forgotten how callow you were.”

The man loosed a terrible, racking cough that doubled him over. On recovering, he fussed with his lapels and smoothed down the fabric of his trousers, as if worried lest they wrinkle.

“Be careful when next you wake,” he said, wheezing, his voice raspier than before. “Do not react to anything you may hear or see. Don’t cry out for help. Slip from the bed as quietly as you can. Your enemies are near.”

“Am I asleep now?”

“You are, yet this is no dream. Heed my warning or you will not see daybreak.”

“If not a dream, what is it? A sending of some kind?”

“Don’t be preoccupied with the nature of the experience. Listen to me!”

The man was possessed by a second coughing fit, of longer duration than the first, and Rosacher volunteered to examine him if he so wished, saying that the cough suggested some deep-seated malady.

“It’s nothing,” said the man, struggling for breath. “Did you hear what I told you to do?”

“Yes. Don’t say anything. Slip from my bed.”

“Quietly!”

“Yes, yes. I understand. Quietly. I’d see to that cough if I were you.”

It occurred to Rosacher that it was the height of idiocy to offer medical advice to someone who might be a figment of his imagination, yet he inquired of the man as to what portion of reality he might represent. Was he an embodiment of the dragon, the image sent to deliver a message, or a living person co-opted for that purpose? And how had he acquired this foreknowledge of his, Rosacher’s, fate?

“Were I to answer ‘yes’ to your first two questions, I would not be far off the mark,” the man said. “Your third question requires a more complicated answer. Though he was once a mortal creature, long-lived yet born to die, Griaule has grown not only in size, but also in scope. Demiurge may be too great a word to describe him, but he is akin to such a presence. An incarnation, if you will. His flesh has become one with the earth. He knows its every tremor and convulsion. His thoughts roam across the plenum, and his mind is a cloud that encompasses our world. His blood…” He made a florid gesture that seemed to include the entire surround. “His blood is the marrow of time. Centuries and days flow through him, leaving behind a residue that he incorporates into his being. Is it any wonder that he knows our fates?”

“Nonsense,” Rosacher said, annoyed by the man’s unctuous certitude. “Griaule is a lizard. A monumental lizard who may possess some potency, an ability to influence the weak-minded; but he is nonetheless a lizard and thus mortal. He bleeds, he breathes, and he will die.”

“He will die when he wishes to die,” said the man. “As do all perfected souls who give their light to the world. But I came to warn you, not to debate philosophical matters.”

“This is scarcely a debate. There is nothing at issue.”

The man stood and studied Rosacher. “You are a fool, but in Griaule’s design there is a place for fools. Do you not wonder why I was sent?”

“No more than I’m inclined to wonder about why my ass itches. I assume it’s because of an irritation, something disagreeable that caused an adverse reaction.”

The man shook his head ruefully and said, “I almost wish my warning would be in vain.” He then gave a curt salute and strode off at the same rapid pace with which he had approached, merging with the other dark figures carried by the dragon’s blood.

As unnerved by the man’s abrupt exit as he had been by his advent, Rosacher called after him, not wishing to be alone in that solitude. When he did not reappear, Rosacher braced himself with the thought that the man might have proven even more annoying had he stayed. The patterns of the blood troubled his sight. He closed his eyes, yet continued to see them in his mind’s eye and was seduced by their consistent flow, their ceaseless evolution and by the intimations he began to receive from them—shimmers of emotion, fragmentary landscapes, pieces of memory all, but memories that he did not recognize for his own, like the glints of ornamental carp glimpsed beneath the surface of a golden pond.

He woke into a pitch-dark room, rain driving against the walls of the house, a firm mattress and satin sheets beneath him, and had a sense of familiar enclosure. His room, his house. He fumbled for a candlestick, but recalled the man’s warning. It was the height of the ridiculous to heed a warning voiced in a dream, and yet the dream had been so unusual in form and substance, he was compelled to give it credence. Holding his breath, he eased from beneath the covers. The floor was cold. He crept away from the bed, wary of creaking boards, and groped his way along the wall until he located a corner. He stood with his back pressed against the angle of the walls, and began to feel even more foolish for having obeyed the compulsion of a dream. A noise alerted him and he froze in place. A clock ticked, the rain drummed. The cold of the floor spread through his limbs, and then a flurry of noise came from the bed, sounding as if someone were taking a mallet to the pillows. Rosacher edged toward the door, groped for the knob, and was blinded by a dazzling light. His eyes adjusted and he made out a cowled figure kneeling on the bed, a shadowed face peering in his direction, a dagger in one hand and holding aloft in the other what looked to be a starry, blue-white gemstone, the source of the radiance.

The assassin sprang for him, a nightmare of flapping robes and an empty cowl. Rosacher was bowled over by the attack, but succeeded in grabbing the man’s knife-arm, securing his wrist, and they went rolling across the carpet at the foot of the bed. For an instant Rosacher gained the upper hand, straddling the assassin, but the man whipped him onto his back—effortlessly, it seemed—and came astride him, forcing the dagger toward Rosacher’s throat. The point of the blade scored his jaw. He cried out, a desperate shout, and sought to dislodge the assassin by bucking with his hips, directing his remaining energies toward diverting the blade. Light still issued from the gemstone fallen to the floor, but he could see nothing of his attacker’s face. The assassin shifted his grip on the hilt of the dagger, relaxing downward pressure for a split-second, and Rosacher seized the opportunity to cry out again. The dagger nicked him twice more, once in the shoulder and once on the collarbone. He suffocated in the mustiness of the man’s woolen robe, in the pepper-and-onions scent of his last meal. With a surge of energy, realizing he had no chance fighting from his back, Rosacher brought his knee up hard into the assassin’s back, driving him forward, and scrambled from beneath him, regaining his feet, panting, gulping in air. The assassin came up into a crouch and feinted with the dagger…and then the door burst open, lantern-light cut the dimness, and three of Rosacher’s servants rushed into the room. Hesitating but a moment, they leaped at the assassin and bore him to the floor. Arthur appeared in the doorway, pistol in hand, clad in a nightshirt that fell to his bony knees. Drained of his reserves, Rosacher staggered to the bed and sat. The assassin lay without struggling in the grip of the three men, one of whom had received a slash across the arm. His cowl had fallen back, revealing him to be a mere boy of sixteen or thereabouts, towheaded and with a baby-ish face. He seemed to be praying, his eyes shut, lips moving silently. Rosacher watched him without pity.

“It’ll take more than prayer to bring you through this night,” he said.

The boy’s eyelids fluttered, but he continued to pray.

“Are you injured?” Arthur asked.

“Not badly.” Rosacher pointed to the gemstone on the floor. “Here. Hand it to me.”

Arthur scooped it up. “It’s one of the Church’s baubles.”

The gem was warm to the touch, about the size of a peach, faceted on its uppermost surface. It no longer shone. After a cursory examination, Rosacher tossed it onto the bed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Arthur.

The giant adopted a sheepish expression. “I was induced to stay by your new kitchen girl. Good thing, as it turned out.”

“Where’s Ludie?”

“I don’t think she’s back from her ride. She said she’d be gone ’til tomorrow.”

A maid peeked in the door and Arthur told her to fetch bandages and ointment. Still unsteady, Rosacher stood and clung to the bedpost for support. Arthur asked once more if he was all right. Rosacher ignored the question and waved at the assassin. “Take him to the cellar and question him. And send someone to the barracks. I’ll need a force of twenty men.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

“Just get them! And make certain they’re men we can trust. Have them dress in civilian clothes.” Rosacher indicated the three servants who were hustling the assassin from the room. “See that they get some money.”

Once Arthur had gone, he went into the bathroom and lit the wall lamp. Memories crowded into his brain, new ones mixing with old, slotting into their rightful place, aligning with events, times, locations, and even before he looked into the mirror he knew that he had suffered a second and more substantial lapse of time. Six years! No, seven. Seven years. He was surprised by how greatly he had changed. His head was no longer shaven, his hair flecked with gray, curling down over his neck. His face was leaner, harsher, with deep lines beside the mouth and eyes. An imperious face, unadmitting of emotion. He found much to admire in that face. A new firmness was seated there, reflecting a pragmatic cast of mind—that must explain why he was not so disoriented as he had been on the previous occasion. He had grown more adaptable to change, though he could not adapt to the idea that years were being ripped away from him.

Blood trickled from the cut on his jaw and from another on his brow, running down his cheek and neck. A bloodstain mapped the right shoulder of his nightshirt. He took off the shirt and inspected the wounds to his shoulder and collarbone. They were shallow and both had nearly stopped bleeding. His anger had dissipated to a degree, but now it hardened and thrust up from his other emotions like a mountain peak from a sea of clouds. Although he was furious with the Church, who had undoubtedly sent the assassin, the greater portion of his outrage was reserved for himself and for the worlds, the knowledge that he had not conquered in the way he had desired…and for Griaule, the agency ultimately responsible for his travail and disappointment. No blow on the head could have caused this and he could no longer deny that a monstrous lizard ruled his fate. That Griaule had spared his life by sending a messenger gave him no comfort. He was, he thought, being preserved for some more intricate fate and he hungered for something, a spell, a spoonful of medicine, a prayer that would restore his lost years. His thoughts lashed about in frustration.

A tapping at the door diverted him and he yanked it open, preparing to vilify whomever it might be. The maid, her brown hair cropped short, broad-beamed and heavy-breasted, her dumpling face stamped with a common prettiness that would before long slump into matronly, double-chinned drabness…she bore ointment and bandages. As she applied the ointment, going about it with mute animal concentration, he felt an urge to re-establish control, to impose his will, and that urge combined with a less subtle desire. He fondled her breasts, an intimacy that did not cause her to complain. He might have been patting her on the head for all the reaction she displayed. Once she had done with the bandages, he bent her over the sink. She hiked up her skirts and diddled herself, making ready for him. Her bovine compliance irritated him and he spent the next ten or fifteen minutes trying to transform her stuporous expression into one that resembled passion. She hung her head and he ordered her to lift it so he could watch her face in the mirror. At length she closed her eyes and pressed her lips together and yielded up a thin squeal. He sent her from him, telling her to take a coin from atop the dresser, and—his confidence if not fully revived, then braced and polished—he threw on his clothes and went down to the cellar to determine what had been learned from the assassin.