CHAPTER 26
Isabella woke before the other girls. Her chamber faced east, and the rising sun lifted her gently from sleep. She preferred it so: the night she had woken suddenly to fire was still a scorching memory. While Rasenna slept for a few more hours, she performed her exercises with the gravity of someone far older than thirteen. The fire had taken much, but it gave Isabella the strength to hold the convent together after the Reverend Mother and Sister Lucia were slain; her duty, as theirs had been, was to serve Time, and to divert those who would divert it.
Sofia had become her teacher of Water Style. She took Isabella to the bridge to observe the Irenicon, telling her there was a still-greater river all around, carrying them all into the next hour, the next year and finally, into infinity, and that if she became aware of it, she could use it. Like Sofia, Isabella had been raised in a bandieratori tower, so the physical part came easy. Self-control took longer; she only attained it by burying certain memories.
When she felt ready she went to the chapel carrying a jug of water and a glass. She sat at the low table looking up at the depiction of the Virgin and made the Sign of the Sword. She filled the glass with a trembling hand. The water fluttered in the multi-coloured light of the recently repaired stained-glass window.
Sofia had warned Isabella that evasion would allow her to progress only so far. The way to get beyond memories, however painful, was to dive into them fearlessly. They were waiting: the fear that she would burn with her brothers, her mother and father, and shame that her first thought was saving herself. It took many attempts to pass through the firestorm under the cool surface, but now it was less painful than slowly drifting a finger over a flame.
Below the fire, the water grew precariously cold and viscous, and the pain changed pitch. The deeper she swam, the deeper it cut, until fingers and toes, hands and feet, arms and legs were numb. She had to push on and ignore the ice stabbing her heart until at last she broke though. In the dark infinity below the fire and ice waited the greatest horror: the Darkness. She knew instinctively she must defeat it now, or perish. Its limbs were writhing maggot heads, their touch was intimate, cold and insatiable. Its sustenance was inexhaustible: the hate of the world, the infinity of fear that even the weakest heart contains. Its tight grip pulled her in as she struggled.
Alone, Isabella would certainly have perished, but Sofia had dredged her up and ordered gruffly: ‘Practise.’ That was Sofia’s way. She was a fighter, and so fought to the point of exhaustion. That came quickly, against Sofia; the Reverend Mother’s speed was nothing compared to what Sofia had achieved. Before she landed, Sofia was waiting; before she kicked, Sofia had sidestepped and countered, not just one step ahead but many. Isabella dimly understood from her glimpse of the Darkness the great cost Sofia had paid for that speed, and worked harder.
Day by day she was getting stronger.
Then, a year to the day after the siege, Sofia abandoned her. Was it part of her training? Perhaps this next step must be taken alone, like birth or death – but no, that wasn’t it. When Isabella caught Sofia’s eye on the bridge, she would turn away. When Isabella visited Tower Scaligeri, Sofia made excuses – she was busy in the workshop, in the Signoria, assisting the midwife. Something had changed; something Sofia had not expected. She needed help that Isabella was incapable of providing.
Isabella felt the warmth light on her skin and looked up at the window. ‘Madonna,’ she whispered, ‘you suffered and were not afraid. Give me courage.’
She closed her eyes. Alone or not, she must overcome the Darkness: for Rasenna’s sake, and Sofia’s.