The Boy Who Wept Blood by Den Patrick Read Free Book Online Page B

the good grace to look apologetic about it.
    ‘Better late than never,’ said Dino quietly.
    Ruggeri and D’arzenta exchanged a look. ‘Some of us have to teach,’ said D’arzenta.
    ‘I’d give my wolf’s teeth to get back to teaching, I can assure you,’ replied Dino with a frown. Ruggeri pursed his lips and said nothing.
    ‘Surely there are others who can guard your sister?’ pressed D’arzenta.
    Anea’s eyes narrowed.
    ‘You mean the Lady Diaspora,’ said Dino, stepping closer.
    ‘I think what my colleague means,’ said Ruggeri, standing between the two men, ‘is that you are often engaged as a bodyguard these days. Perhaps it would be for the best to appoint a new superiore , one who could give the position, and the students, the full attention they deserve.’
    Anea took Dino by the arm and signed. Tell him I will consider it. We do not have time for this now.
    Dino passed her words on and they continued on their way, leaving the maestri di spada to stand with Isabella.
    ‘D’arzenta is in a particularly poor humour today,’ said Stephania.
    ‘He was as dutiful as any,’ said Dino, ‘but he’s never forgiven me for being appointed superiore . He’d decided he was next in line.’
    ‘Succession rarely works out the way we hope,’ replied Stephania, glancing at her mother.
    House Contadino had arrived en masse. Margravio and Marchesa Contadino were attended closely by Massimo, who glowered at anyone stepping too close. His hand rested none-too-subtly on the hilt of his blade. Word of the attempted assassination had left a sour taste in the mouths of the mourners, the tension shared by all a hangover from the violence. Despite this, the Contadinos’ children were in attendance, Luc and Isabella, transparently bored and unimpressed – understandable given they were too young to have met the old dottore. Luc Contadino was just eleven but already the image of his father, minus the beard and scar. Isabella on the other hand had features from both her parents. A sparrow of just nine summers, she was spare of frame in the same way as her mother. Their cook, Camelia, stood at the back of the party. She gave a tiny nod to Dino and a tight smile. Her eyes shifted back to Virmyre.
    Russo began the ceremony, which was mercifully short. The people of Landfall lacked much in the way of religion; the king had seen to that in a ruthless purge that had seen piles of books lost to conflagrations. The nobles were wedded to stoicism and spiritually apathetic since the purge, Angelicola included. The nascent cult of Santa Maria was the domain of the cittadini for the most part.
    ‘Who’s reading the eulogy?’ whispered Dino.
    Anea shook her head.
    The rites for the dead had been prescribed by the king, who had insisted on a panoply of funerary statuary: headstones and urns for the majority, angels for those who could afford them, crypts and sarcophagi for the very rich. No one alive knew the significance of these symbols, which were as ageless as they were meaningless, any religion the people adhered to a relic of the past. The disciples of Santa Maria searched for texts that had not fallen prey to the king’s attentions, archeologists of creed, cobbling together their faith from scattered remnants.
    ‘You look tired,’ whispered Stephania.
    ‘I feel tired.’ Dino smiled.
    ‘How is your arm?’
    Dino looked down at the point where the dagger had slashed his jacket only to be turned aside by his tines. He swallowed and frowned.
    ‘It’s fine. One snapped off. It’ll grow back. They always do.’
    Russo grated out hollow platitudes while Virmyre remained silent. No one had much to say: few had paid Angelicola mind, outcast this long tumultuous decade. Duchess Prospero manufactured some tears but genuine sorrow from the mourners was in short supply. Anea placed a lily on the coffin lid and bowed her head in respect. The undertakers lowered the casket into the ground by means of thick ropes dyed black. The