This short story is written for those who have read Born of Fire. It is not a happy scene, and perhaps would be more appropriately categorized as horror over fantasy. Maybe don’t read it unless you’ve a penchant for the dark… Consider yourself warned.
Dante checked his watch and went to the fridge to pour himself a drink. He wondered just how long it was going to take Nic to go through the burning, and what it felt like. Nicodemo had told him that almost no fire magi were reckless enough to attempt a burning. The pain was simply too great and the chances of dying far too high.
“But the rewards,” Dante had protested. “The rewards must be nearly unfathomable. You won’t have to live with the pain, and your powers will more than double. Right?”
Nicodemo was the most important and powerful man in Dante’s father’s employ. Enzo and Dante didn’t often see eye to eye. Dante didn’t quite understand how he’d managed to disappoint his father so much in his young life, but it had been made clear that Enzo didn’t see his son as worthy to take over the family business. If he could see Nicodemo safely through a burning, Dante would be responsible for exponentially increasing the reach of the already long Barberini arms throughout the Veneto region. Dante could already see the appreciation and excitement in his father’s eyes. His heart pounded like a drum at the thought. Everything in his body desired such approval because with it would come great power. Dante could do a better job even than his father at increasing the holdings and wealth of the Barberini family, he just had to be given a chance. Enzo had far too much compassion to be a really great Don, but Dante was not encumbered by a soft heart.
Nicodemo had nodded. “It’s true, those who survive have power far greater than those who don’t. I have never met a magus who survived a burning, though, so it’s difficult to say just how much. There’s a reason most magi would never try it. It’s foolhardy.”
Dante had given up on convincing Nic to try a burning, it seemed there was nothing he could say to make him change his mind. The magus had even spoken gruffly to the teenager a few times, insisting he leave off the topic. Dante would never let any other man in his father’s employee speak to him like that, but Nicodemo was a special case.
Dante wasn’t sure what happened in Nicodemo’s life to make him change his mind, but he couldn’t stop the vibration of excitement that seized him the day Nic took the villa steps two at a time, passing by Dante in a rush. “Let’s do it,” was all he’d said. Enzo and most of his men were in Milan on business, the kind of business they didn’t need a fire magus for, so Dante and Nic had the villa and grounds to themselves.
Dante gave chase and asked why Nic had changed his mind, but the magus wouldn’t give. “You’re the only one who can take me safely through this,” was the only thing Nicodemo would say. “Are you in, or not?”
“Of course I’m in. Who else has been trying to convince you to do this for the last six months?” Dante rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“Your father would kill us if he knew,” said Nicodemo.
“He won’t find out. At least, not until it’s all been done. Then he’ll be nothing but grateful,” Dante assured him.
They agreed to use the century-old cell under the villa, the one with the high ceilings, the out-of-reach window, and the tempered steel door. Dante had filled five buckets with water and lined the outside of the cell, readying them for use at the appointed time. “Get five more,” Nicodemo said when he saw them.
They had to duck low to crawl through the door. They were met with dank air and the smell of old urine. Dante had put a lavender scented pillow on the wooden platform, which served as a bed. A single small comfort. Dante turned the key and the ancient bolts slid home, leaving Nic locked inside.
“If you hear me screaming,” said Nicodemo through the barred door.
“I know, ignore you,” Dante finished.
“Do you think you can do that?” asked Nicodemo, his fingers appeared through the small grate, and his obsidian eyes peered out.
Just the fact that Nic asked, thought Dante, showed how much Nic underestimated him, just like Enzo did. Dante was not put off by the sound of screaming the way most men were. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
“Try not to enjoy yourself too much,” said Nicodemo and his mouth twitched. Okay so maybe he did know Dante, a bit.
And so it had begun. The burning. The agonizing exercise which would take Nicodemo to the edge of death – an edge only Dante could pull him back from by administering the healing water at the very last moment. Of course, there was no way he’d know exactly when the last moment would be, Nicodemo had given him a window. Dante was charged with checking him at the 12-hour mark, and every five minutes thereafter. “Don’t check me before the 12-hour mark has passed,” insisted Nicodemo. “If you do, I shall beg. And I can’t have you seeing me that way. My guess is that it will take as long as 16 hours, maybe even more, so you’ll have some uncomfortable waiting to do.”
The sound of screaming and begging began at the six-hour mark; a rough, deep-throated and ragged sound filled with agony. It seeped up through the cracks in the foundation and echoed through the empty halls. The sound could break a heart. Dante went outside, circled the villa to make sure the cell’s small window was open. It was, but there was no sign of smoke yet. He hoped the screaming wouldn’t last. People in the neighbourhood knew better than to inquire after strange sounds coming from the Barberini villa, but still, he didn’t want anyone alerting his father’s men before the job was done. Dante left and met some friends for a spritz. When he returned four hours later, all was quiet.
“When the cell has a layer of smoke along the ceiling,” Nicodemo had said, “and there is a faint smell of burning flesh, only then can you give me water.” Dante’s stomach churned at the description, but there was also something so stimulating about the risk and the torture, as long as it was someone else’s.
Dante had bothered Nic for years, trying to get him to teach him how to be fire magus. “First of all, you’re born with it.” Nicodemo had explained. “You see this?” He indicated the tiny mole-coloured fireball on the outside of his right wrist. “It’s not a tattoo, it’s a birthmark – the mark of a fire magus. Second of all, I would never wish this ability on anyone. It hurts every second of every day, it’s nearly unbearable when I’m dehydrated and in the early stages of a burning.”
That evening, Dante settled onto the sofa to watch the regatta. The sound of oars rhythmically slicing through water soon had him dozing. He was jarred awake, heart pounding, by the faint smell of smoke and burning meat. He checked his watch and breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t missed the alarm. He still had 5 minutes to go before the 12-hour mark. Dante got up and rubbed his eyes. The smell of charred flesh made his body break out in a cold sweat.
Dante descended into the medieval basement right on the agreed time. Twelve hours. He ducked his head as he entered the long hallway and made his way to the last cell. The air had grown warm in a place that always remained cool, no matter how hot the Venetian summer got. The smoke thickened and Dante began to cough. He covered his nose. Nicodemo had underestimated the smell. It was awful. Like a barbecue gone horribly wrong, gamey and acrid. Dante’s stomach surged as he approached the metal door. “Nicodemo?” Dante peered in through the small slot in the door. Smoke filtered out and stung his eyes. With shaking fingers Dante put the key into the lock and opened the door. He coughed into his arm as smoke drifted out. Dante stumbled back, waving his hands. “Nic!” he yelled, choking. Sweat beaded on Dante’s forehead and upper lip. It was hot as glass-blowers workshop inside. Dante bent to look into the cell, squinting through the haze. The shadow of Nic’s form on the wooden platform was completely still. Nicodemus had told him that he would get to a point where he couldn’t move, so that was to be expected. But the smoke was not just lining the ceiling, it was an opaque four-foot layer, making the ceiling appear much lower than it actually was.
“Nicodemo?” Dante peered in through the small slot in the door. Smoke filtered out and stung his eyes. With shaking fingers Dante put the key into the lock and opened the door. He coughed into his arm as smoke drifted out. Dante stumbled back, waving his hands. “Nic!” he yelled, choking. Sweat beaded on Dante’s forehead and upper lip. It was hot as glass-blowers workshop inside. Dante bent to look into the cell, squinting through the haze. The shadow of Nic’s form on the wooden platform was completely still. Nicodemus had told him that he would get to a point where he couldn’t move, so that was to be expected. But the smoke was not just lining the ceiling, it was an opaque four-foot layer, making the ceiling appear much lower than it actually was.
The feeling that it had all gone horribly wrong was overwhelming. Nausea roiled in Dante’s guts. Enzo would never forgive him if Nic didn’t survive this, even if it had been Nic’s idea.
Dante’s hands shook as he ripped off his polo, dunked it into a bucket, wrung it out, and wrapped it around his head and face, leaving only a slit to see through. He picked up two buckets and pushed his way awkwardly into the cell with his burdens, his eyes watered and stung. He kept his breathing shallow and squatted low, staying beneath the thickest smoke. A white blur on the floor spooked him until he realised it was the pillow. Nic must have thrown it on the ground at some point early on, not wanting to light it on fire.
Nic was lying on the wooden platform in the corner of the room. Smoke streamed from his open mouth, and wisped from his ears. Dante threw one bucket of water over him. A sizzling sound filled the cell, like throwing water on a hot grill. “Nic?” he called, praying for a response. Nothing. Dante coughed, his throat burned. His pounding heart filled his head with blood, and the headache began to throb at his temples. He took a drink of water from the other bucket before throwing it over Nicodemo as well. Again the air filled with steam. Dante exchanged the empty buckets for full ones, and, body trembling from adrenalin, threw another onto Nic’s form.
Squinting through the haze, Dante half expected to see a charred figure, like a body pulled from a volcano. But Nic looked as whole and normal as ever, skin pale, thinning hair still combed. But he wasn’t responding to the water the way he should. He lay completely motionless, eyes half open and unfocused, staring up at the ceiling. A chill swept Dante’s body in spite of the heat. Nicodemo’s eyes were glowing. For a moment, Dante’s heart surged with relief, thinking the man was still alive, only paralysed. All he needed was more water to cure him. But as he bent to hold the bucket to the man’s lips, he got a closer look. Smoke drifted up from Nic’s mouth in a steady stream, the way it would from a chimney. But the eyes. Dante had seen Nic’s eyes glow before, but they were always full of life and emotion. They only glowed when Nic was excited or angry. But this time… his eyes were open and unseeing. Something was off about the glow. It was as though the fire was alive, but danced inside an empty shell. Dante’s excitement collapsed and he turned his head to gag.
He put a hand out to Nic’s shoulder to jar him awake but snatched it back with a hiss. The fire magus was too hot to touch. “Nicodemo!” Dante screamed. No response. Tears rolled down Dante’s face, as much from fear as from the smoke. He poured water from the bucket into Nic’s lax mouth. The water spilled over the man’s face and onto the wooden platform. More hissing, and the fire in Nic’s eyes dimmed. Dante waited, calling his friend’s name. The glow in the man’s eyes finally flickered out, leaving the corpse as quiet and void of life as a tomb.
“No,” the word escaped on a moan, and, with it, the realisation fully sank in. Dante had failed. He had failed Nic, and he had failed Enzo. How was he going to explain this to his father? Nicodemo was dead.
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