The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Letter the Fifth

It was with overwhelming joy that I received your letters, for they signified that the long silence which obtained between us was not due to lack of fraternal affection, but the disordered state of the posts. I languish in the inaccessible Chamber of the Unicorn, in the topmost tower of Parva, that proud city which has now been transformed in its entirety into a prison by the cruel decrees of Fra Scarpiglione, while you sit in Amsterdam and between us half of Europe is at war. Thus whenever I receive a missive from you it is as if a small beam of light had managed to penetrate the adamantine walls of this loathsome place, and it seems a miracle, a miracle such as only the likes of you and I can accomplish when we abide by the spirit of the Master’s teachings.

How different your circumstances seem to be from mine, O Telesio! Amsterdam, at least in my imagining, seems to be a city of light and a fitting dwelling for you who were ever the champion of enlightened compassion. With me it is different, and it is no accident that I have taken up residence in dark abodes of both body and spirit. For this too is part of the great work, the restitution and reinstauration of human nature, which requires some of us to work out our lives in the abyss, mining for light in the realms of darkness. You brighten my imprisonment with tidings of new inventions and discoveries, of clockwork and lenses, and marvels from the Indies and the Americas. In return I blighten your sunny days with tales of demons dredged up from the pit. Do not be too hard on me my friend, for I have my vocation as you have yours. And remember our other motto...from the obscure into more obscurity!

Therefore do not think that I was totally without pity towards little Leonora, for I knew that, as great as her fall from the estate of princess to that of slave girl might have seemed, it was in reality only the hesitant step of her bare foot onto the first flagstone of a stairwell leading down into dark terrors which her mind could not possibly encompass. Had Leonora been consigned, for the remaining days of her beauty, to be a dancing girl before retiring to the drudgery of a scullery crone, it would have been according to my estimation as much punishment as we, who live beneath the orbit of the Moon, are deputized to meet out to one who was once great and proud. However the fate of all things are woven together in a pattern which is of such subtlety that it baffles the wits even of the wise. Do we not hear of entire cities cast down on account of the sins of a few of their leading citizens, wiped from the face of the Earth, their very names only surviving as bywords and execrations? Such is the vanity with which we mortals, unaware of the designs of providence, attempt to measure the deserts of individuals with minute precision. However, as Leonora was not the author of Parva’s captivity, but only a willing conspirator in the execution of another’s plan, thus she could not escape the more drastic retribution which awaited the malefic star about which she orbited.

The more was the pity for she was a fine dancer indeed. That, plus her lute, which alone amongst all her former possessions I had rescued from my thieving cohorts, made her a prize possession. It was with a tinge of sadness that I realized that this was the first and last time that she would dance privately for me, while I reclined in the shadows of our booth watching her gyrations as she eased into the opening movements of the “Flight of the Gazelle.” The dance began with soft undulating motions, then was punctuated by rapid snapping motions of the limbs and neck in human imitation of the gazelle’s sudden awareness of the stag. Then she raised her hands above her head, crossing them at the wrists. Perhaps this represented the stag’s antlers, or perhaps the gazelle’s reaction to them, as she pricked up her ears. I noticed, with some disappointment, that our erstwhile princess had not been in the custom of shaving her underarms, or if so had been negligent of late. That blemish, together with the luxuriant growth that appeared on her mons venus, would have to be removed if she were ever to appear at public auction. However in the besotted and slovenly chambers of Regrado’s inn, such attention to esthetic details were wasted.

Such meditations brought me back to the grim call of duty, and I clapped my hands forceably together, bidding her to stop.

“Does it not please you my master? I was just begining.” She seated herself on the ground before me, trying to catch her breath and looking up hopefully.

“I didn’t see enough to come to any conclusion in the matter.” Of course I had, but I realized that the worse thing that one could do when breaking someone to slavery, even someone who had been brought to slavery by enchantment, was the bestowal of inordinate praise.

“Then why did you stop me?”

“Because your charms are squandered in the half light of this booth. Besides, it is time for you to learn that a slave must earn her keep. Do you think that you are just some expensive pet that I intend to feed and maintain? Look at that woman in the middle of the public chamber.”

Leonora stood up and looked out to where the pantalooned woman was still dancing on top of the table. It was not clear whether she was free or slave, but she was most certainly turning a profit, for on occasion someone would throw a small coin onto the table. These occasions were not frequent, but the woman had been dancing for most of the afternoon and on into the evening, so the table had become endowed with a considerable scattering of bronze and copper pieces.

My slave turned to me with a smile, intrigued by what I was implying. She had enough wits left in her brain to realize that I had been dissembling indifference to the dancing skills which she had exhibited, and had enough confidence in her to show her off in front of a crowd. Clearly she was not unfavorably disposed to the suggestion, and only one obstacle seemed to hinder her compliance. “But master, I have nothing to dance in.”

“A dancing girl has no more need for clothing than a gazelle has for pantaloons. When you were still sovereign of Parva I swore that I would cloth you according to your station, and I stand by my word. However your station, Leonora, has changed and so has the livery which is appropriate thereto. I am anxious that you do not hang on my word in this matter, but rather discover from experience how your unadorned state is greeted as the one most befitting the performance of your art. Therefore I say, nay I command you Leonora, go, go, and dance!”

It is an interesting property of the soul, my good Telesio, that it is susceptible to no mean metamorphosis when subjected to conditions of slavery. You might dogmatize my friend, and say that freedom and slavery, like oil and water, cannot mix. However it has been my experience that there is a kind of wanton freedom proper to slavery. Leonora who, when she was a noble woman, would have demurred for any man to see her in a state of immodesty, now that she was a slave made no objection when I commanded her to dance naked before the vulgar crowd. One might have at least expected to see shock and fear revealed in her clear green eyes, and at first, indeed she registered some such emotion, however this quickly changed to the savage anticipation of being able to display herself in front of an audience. Nor did she walk modestly out into the candle-lit interior of the chamber, concealing her choicer parts behind hands and arms. Rather she strode proudly and with the proper bearing of her carriage, like a dethroned captive paraded behind an imperial chariot, which was in fact not far from her true situation.

When she reached the center of the room she leapt, displaying surprising agility, on to the table next to that which the pantalooned woman was using as a stage. Even before the “Flight of the Gazelle” had commenced Leonora had captured the attention of the entire chamber by means of her undress and her noble bearing, and when she began the slow, anticipatory movements of her dance she demonstrated an ability to hold her onlookers spellbound. Soon she was being approvingly pelted by small bronzes and coppers, but she appeared to pay no attention as she wound into the first gyrations of the dance, allowing the coins to drip off of her naked body and onto the table with the unselfconsciousness of a child playing in the rain. The woman in the pantaloons gave up on her dance, swept her earnings off the table and quit the inn with a rude gesture directed towards the rival who had rendered her performance unnecessary. Even the boy playing the dither switched allegiances, and without missing a beat modulated his tempo to the gradually building crescendo of the “Flight of the Gazelle.”

I was in no position to admire the skills of my dancing slave. As the father of physicians once said, “art is long and life is short.” Indeed, sometimes life is shorter than a single piece of art, and most certainly shorter than the “Flight of the Gazelle” which a dedicated dancer can stretch out to encompass an entire evening. I peered out of the darkened booth looking for a person...or rather a certain type of person within the unpromising precincts of the inn.

At last I spied a table at the back of the room occupied by two men who appeared to be foreigners. One of them was bent over a gurgling hookah, oblivious to the world. The other, a man as tall as myself whom I could scarcely credit as the companion of the hookah-smoker, sat arrow straight against the the back wall, surveying, like me, the clientele of the establishment. Out of curiosity I exited my booth and approached the table. The tall man, in spite of his civilian dress, held himself with military alertness. Moreover, when I neared the table I observed that on the back of his hand was branded the crescent moon of those in the service of the Commander of the Faithful, the Sublime Port.

I boldly introduced myself and queried, “May I sit down?”

“Since when does a Lombard have fellowship with one of the Believers?” He responded laconically.

“I am no Lombard, but my family was forced to leave, under uncomfortable circumstances, from Spain...the country once called Al-Andelus. They settled in Parva, which used to be a great city. Now it is not so hospitable.”

“So I hear.” He looked at me with the sort of pity one might spare for an unfortunate animal and gestured for me to sit down. The hookah-smoking companion, if companion he was, failed to note my presence through the mists of his pleasure. The tall man continued. “My name is Khadim. I am a merchant.”

“Really? I would have taken you for a soldier.”

He looked down at the brand. “I am neither a deserter nor a spy, if that is what you think. Yes, I am a Colonel in the Janissaries of the Sublime Porte. Sometimes I come to Regrado looking for any new kinds of ordinance which have been developed by the ironmongers of these countries. But I don’t always work for the commissariat, I do private purchasing as well. So when I told you I was a merchant I wasn’t lying.”

“You don’t seem like a liar to me. In fact, I was looking about for someone with the mark of an honest man. It so happens that I need an objective opinion in a certain matter. Do you see that woman dancing in the middle of the room?”

“It would be impossible not to.”

“Tomorrow I will be forced to sell her on the public slave block. Honestly, I have no experience in these matters and no means of estimating the girl’s worth. I was thinking that a man such as you, knowledgeable in commerce...”

“Not knowledgeable regarding the traffic of human flesh, if that is what you mean. I’m a soldier. But if you want an honest opinion, I wouldn’t expect too much. She dances too well.”

“Too well?” I was astonished at the paradox.

“Yes. I know this dance, it is called the “Flight of the Gazelle.” Nobody but a professional dancer of long experience would even attempt it. You won this woman in a game of chance here in Regrado did you not?”

“You are indeed astute...for so it was!”

“I would keep her. After all, she is beautiful and an excellent dancer. However if you expect to make money on her you will be sorely disappointed. A woman who dances that well has probably been a slave since early youth and has been passed around from master to master. As with any semidurable merchandise each resale will have lowered her previous value. For all I know she may even have peen a public courtesan, in which case she will be practically unmarketable, although that doesn’t explain the mystery of how she wound up in your hands.”

“Thank you Col. Kadhim, you have indeed given me an appraisal...and with unstinting honesty.”

“You’re welcome. But don’t take me for an expert. It’s shameful even to know the specifics of that branch of commerce. The only reason why I appear to be what is called a “cognoscenti” by the Lombards is by virtue of my posting to the Imperial Headquarters in ‘Stanbool. As such I often have to enter into negotiations with the Chief Eunuch of the Seraglio over commissariat matters. I must tell you, that the only ones that they are willing to take on these days are virgins, and even among those only the high-born fetch a good price.”

“Would it raise your appraisal if I were to tell you that the woman who dances before you is a virgin, high born, and until this very afternoon, free?”

Kadhim eyed my dancer with unhurried circumspection. The dance was becoming more vigorous as the portrayal of the gazelle’s futile flight commenced in earnest. Leonora’s thighs and hips were twisting in ever more narrow and energetic spirals, her breasts shaking and head turning in an expression of pretended panic from being cornered by the stag. Perspiration had long since covered her body in a glassy sheen which sparkled in the uncertain candlelight of the chamber, holding those guests of the inn who were neither inebriated or otherwise occupied in a state of fascination, and provoking an occasional shower of coins. At last Kadhim passed judgment, “From her complexion and general bearing I would almost credit what you say. But I must reiterate that the dancing is suspicious...certainly not the sort of thing to which noble women are acclimated.”

I realized that the time had come to lay my wager on the table. “Suspicious you say? Nay, impossible! Except in one, admittedly rare, case. This is a noble woman whom I have turned into a dancing girl through an enchantment.”

The hookah smoking gentleman, until now seemingly oblivious to our conversation, roused himself sufficiently to make the sign which wards off the evil eye. For a moment he gazed at me with alarm, then sensing that he was in no immediate danger, returned to his pipe, his eyes glazing over once again. Kadhim, for his part, stayed calm. “Enchantment? That is a word used by the ignorant.”

“Indeed.” I smiled, sensing a kindred spirit in this Turkish officer. “Suffice to say that there are sciences which may unlock, and relock, the human mind.”

“A man who is rash enough to confess himself a sorcerer is either without the guile, or too proud, to lie. If what you say about the girl is true she belongs in the Seraglio. My offer is six hundred florins.”

“I should think that several thousands would be closer to her true value.”

“The Chief Eunuch is a difficult customer and I need to retain my profit margin. Besides, I am incurring all the risks...there is one chance in three that the Venetian Navy will send the girl and me to the bottom of the Adriatic.”

“Very well, I’ll accept your offer of six hundred florins, since, to be truthful, the girl does have a defect. She is mute.”

Kadhim laughed. “Hardly a defect in a woman! You should have held out for a higher price. Meet me at the third hour of the watch, early this morning when the tides are up to the top of the strand. I must go collect my money. Until then.”

“You don’t wish to check her virginity?”

“No sorcerer. I can see that you are a man of integrity.” For some reason he laughed again and strode out of the inn without giving Leonora a further glance. We had a long evening ahead and I felt there was no need to interrupt her performance before its climax. This came early in the morning when there were few customers who were not slumped down on tables or booths in nocturnal repose. It was worth waiting for the final moments of vital exuberance when, legs spread apart and face simulating ecstasy, she jerked her pelvis backwards and forwards mimicking the entry of the stag into her. At last she swooned, the essential conclusion of the dance and an unfeigned action on the part of my well-trained slave.

“Return me to the mountain if you do not wish to suffer the wrath of my lord. Return me to the mountain if you do not wish to suffer the wrath of my lord...” She repeated the phrase over and over in her delirium, for I had catechized her in the phrase with the irrevocable precision of a priest inculcating the rosary in a child. I collected her in my arms from the table onto which she had collapsed, stirred by pride in my slave’s beautiful body and the mind within it which I had crafted to such obedience. She requited my regard through her heavy lidded eyes, gazing at me reverentially, as if I were a god.

And was she so wrong Telesio? For I was her creator, or rather recreator, and like all creators in danger of falling in love with his creation. Kadhim and his pledge of six hundred florins had arrived in barely enough time to save me from my own wiles. There remained but one more thing for me to accomplish in Regrado, and then I would be free of her, at least in this incarnation. I roused the innkeeper and settled our account, transferring to him the miscellaneous remainder of her possessions for credit, everything but the lute, which I told him to entrust to the Turkish officer and the bridal of her horse. This latter item I retrieved from where I had posted our animals. When I returned to the inn’s chamber I found Leonora sweeping up the coins from the table which she had danced upon.

“Leave them!” I commanded. “They are no use to either of us, as you can no longer own property and I disdain the earnings of a dancing girl.” Then I withdrew the short knife that I usually conceal on my person and cut off the reigns from her horse’s bridal. This, now being no more than a leather thong, I tied around one end of her neck, retaining the other in my hand. Exhausted and confused, Leonora made no protest as I led her out on a leash into the ealy morning darkness of Regrado, for the balmy Mediterranean night forgave her want of clothing.

Regrado never sleeps, for its perilous and intermittent existence permits the waste of no hour for the exchange of goods or the indulgence of pleasure. The night torches burn into the early hours of the morning, and more often than not tents are alight all night, full of Saracens sampling the forbidden fruits of Italian vintage, priests, incognito, satisfying themselves with foreign women or boys, and everywhere the constant haggling over rare goods, unobtainable or elsewhere barred by sumptuary legislation. Even so, I should have expected that the apparition of a man leading a woman who was unencumbered by clothing and of not inconsiderable pulchritude through the emporium by a leather thong would have excited more comment than it in fact did. Evidently such a spectacle fell short of being unprecedented, although it could hardly have been too common, and we were able to wind our way through the great sea of tents which had been thrown up between the inn and the slave market unhindered and unmolested.

At last I located what I had been so zealously searching for. It was, for obvious reasons, not a cloth tent, but a kind of hut made of thatch protected by drenched leather skins. Smoke trailed out of its entrance, and its interior emitted an incendiary glow of dark ruby hue. In short, it was the very image of a portal into the regions of Tartarus, and I reflected in a moment of pity that for the unfortunate Leonora it was to be such in truth.

I entered the warm interior of the hut, pulling my ward in behind me. There we were greeted by a giant of a man, stripped to the waist, unbending himself from the fires of his forge. He took in our situation at a glance, and with a broad grin uttered, “I see.”

“You see? Are our needs so obvious Master Blacksmith?”

“Manacles! You won’t keep a pretty wench like that long on nothing but a leather cord. You’ve come to the right person, Pietro of Umbria. I forge the best chains in Regrado.”

“Not, I am afraid, chains strong enough to restrain a woman like this.”

Pietro of Umbria laughed, “I’m the king of manacles! The emperor of chains! Do you not know that I have even been employed by the Holy Office of the Inquisition? I assure you that there are no more demanding customers, and that I have forged both chains and instruments of interrogation for the holy fathers. I can tell you that are most exacting in their requirements, and any smith who falls short of their demanding specifications is likely to find himself confined indefinitely within the chafing cuffs of his own shoddy work. Yet here I stand, a free man, and willing to provide you with irons of the same superb craftsmanship with which I excited the praises of the princes of Rome.”

“O honest Pietro, with what satisfaction I would purchase you chains for the adornment of this maiden! In her donning them there would be as much of irony as iron, for the maiden, like yourself, is no stranger to the supplications of the Holy Office, and it would be fitting for her to receive the same solicitous concern for her welfare as the holy fathers impart to the wards of their dungeons. But I must impress upon you that no simple iron can bind this woman according to the way that I desire. It is this humble gentleman, though I must seem a lean and pale smith to your eyes, who must forge her manacles out of an entirely different substance. But do not fear, good Pietro, for you shall not want for work or generous remuneration. As you can see the woman is most indecent, and it is to your sturdy craft, rather than the fragile wares of the draper, that I entrust the preservation of her modesty...and much else.”

In spite of the obscure manner in which I described his task, Pietro of Umbria was quick to understand what I required of him, and all the more charmed in that it required, for purposes of sizing, that he lay his hand on Leonora somewhere other that the wrists and ankles. Even this piece of work, I marveled, was not considered an out of the way request in Regrado, and Pietro as always insisted that his production of such items was superlative. Indeed we watched him, I in fascination and Leonora in some emotion akin to horror, as he fell to his appointed task. Truly, had one witnessed Hephaestus, father of smiths, form the first iron out of Earth’s molten bosom, one would still be struck with awe at the way Pietro of Umbria clenched the glowing ingot with his tongs and beat upon it with thunderous strokes, bending the red hot iron with each blow closer to its fated shape.

I looked away from the forge and steeled my own heart like an ironmonger, for the time had come for the consummation of my own work. “Leonora.”

“Yes master?” She looked up to me with the eyes of a doe, indeed with her own mind in the precise attitude of what she had only feigned in the dance, when the stag had cornered the gazelle.

“You are confused are you not? Your mind is in pieces, and you barely know what is happening...is that not true?”

“It is true. But at least I have you master. I am your slave and that is enough.”

“That is gratifying, but soon you must relenquish even that. We must part, and before that happens your mind must become a clean slate.”

“A clean slate?”

“As a fashionable philosopher in Paris is wont to say ‘I think therefore I am.’ Now I know, even if you have forgotten, that you used to pride yourself in keeping up with all the fashions. But you and I, yes you little Leonora, are going to perform a great experiment and leap beyond the meager wisdom of this age. We shall attempt to reverse the formula. You are going to cease to think, ergo you shall no longer exist. Therefore I ask you to trust me one final time Leonora, for you are about to embark on a perilous journey. If you set out in your present state, with your mind shattered, you are sure to perish, and to perish horribly. But if you sweep all the old fragments of your mind away and become a clean slate there is a chance that you will survive in some form, a slim chance, but better than nothing.”

“I want to stay with you master!” There were tears rolling down her cheeks.

“It is too late for that Leonora. You must choose: What shall it be life or death?”

After a moment of hesitation she struggled to pronounce through her tears. “Life.”

I continued, “Now, I want you to pass over all your memories, from the earliest that you can recall as a girl in Parva to tonight in Regrado. As you do so, I shall chant your forgetting spell. Never, ever, never, ever, never, ever...” I could tell that she was making a heroic effort to do exactly as I had instructed, an effort rendered all the more difficult as a consequence of having previously consigned large portions of her knowledge and memory to oblivion. After a considerable length of time I concluded, “never, ever, never, ever, never, ever, thou who art no more.” She stood looking at me rather blankly. “Can you remember your name?” I asked.

“Searching her mind with diligence she eventually had to confess,“No.”

“Would you object if I gave you a name? Say, Persephone or Innana?”

“No.”

“But I shall not. It is for others to name you. Can you speak?”

“Yes.”

“That could be dangerous. Think of yourself speaking, shouting, talking, even singing words on your lute, while I continue: Never, ever, never, ever,” I continued as long as I thought necessary to guarantee the procedure, which was quite long,"...never, ever, talk no more.” I waited for a while and then commanded. “Speak!”

“Ahaaaaahhhh...” She let out a stream of raw vocalic sound.

It was perfect. She could understand language but wasn’t able to talk. Now for the crucial test. I prompted her with, “Return me to...”

Her face lit up in recognition of one surviving memory, “...the mountain if you do not wish....ummmmppphh...”

I had clapped my hand over her mouth. “I would be sparing of that with that if I were you. It’s the last fig leaf covering your naked mind, the only barrier between yourself and the kingdom of silence. Only use it if you are in extreme duress, for it is a mighty spell in its own way. And speaking of fig leaves, it appears that Pietro has something for you!”

The mighty blacksmith held out a rounded triangle of iron, somewhat smaller than his enormous hand, attached to a network of chains which locked together in a loop. Delicately he girded it around the now nameless woman’s crotch and hips. She smiled, for there is some deep emotion within all women, even those deprived of their minds, which enjoys adornment. For such a device, it was relatively humane, being formed to the specification of its wearer, and allowing enough play between its inner surface and the flesh for the insertion of a rag, both for cushioning and the absorption of bodily fluids. I realized now that there was no need to see to the barbering of her mons venus, for no eyes were likely to gaze upon that portion of her figure in the near future. Finally Pietro handed me a key, and invited me to pull the chains of her belt tight before securing the lock situated at the back of her waist. I gave an extra tug at the belt which caused her to utter an inarticulate cry. Pietro, though a hardened vendor to the Inquisition, looked at me questioningly, and I felt called upon to explain myself. “She will be traveling to distant lands where her diet will change...it is to be expected that she will loose weight.”

I flipped Pietro of Umbria a florin and commended him on his excellent work. Then, pocketing the key to my ward’s belt, I lead her out by the leash towards the shore. It was the third hour of the watch and a crescent moon was already hovering low over the horizon in the direction of the Dalmatian coast. In only a few hours the hunting dogs of Venice, the sleek galleys, would be slipped from their lashings. I looked out at the sea, now at high tide and dimpled with moonlight and phosphorescence. As I did so I tried to calculate the speed of the nearest vessel, a merchantman of the Golden Horn which was having its lateen sails quietly unfurled, and to estimate the probability of its eluding the sentinels of the sea.

On the strand I spied a tall figure standing in front of a small skiff which was being pushed into the water by its pilot. It was Kadhim. I approached and wordlessly he handed me a heavy purse as I passed him the key to the belt and the leash.

“You aren’t going to count the money?” he asked.

“No. For the same reason you declined to check the girl before I secured her in the belt. Somehow I trust you.”

“In my case it doesn’t matter.” He laughed. “In all probability the girl, myself, and our shipmates will be food for the creatures of the sea before the first hour of prayer.” Then he gave his new ward a pitying look, evidently regretting his candor.

“She will be brave,” I promised, “and she won’t give you any problems. Do you have the lute?”

“It is already in the skiff, as we should be without delay.” He tugged at her leash but she balked, digging her heals in the sand and looking at me longingly with her doe like green eyes. However Kadhim was wise, and could see that for all his contempt of the word itself, the girl responded best to enchantment, not force. He relaxed the leash and spoke to her softly. “What ever risk there may be my little one, is but more than compensated for by the prospects of a successful voyage. You may make me a rich man, and I shall spare no effort to see that no harm comes to you. And what, little dove, do you think awaits you at the end of your travels? Look up at the moon. Do you see its lovely crescent shape? The same shall be branded upon your unblemished thigh, inducting you into the choicest company of women who walk and breathe upon the surface of this nether sphere, standing but a fraction below the ministering spirits of paradise. To the Seraglio shalt thou go, and there, among your peers in beauty, have naught to do but languish in a garden of earthly delights.”

I feared that it would not go as well as Kadhim had made it out, but I said nothing. The girl, who had once been called Leonora, a fact that I hadn’t bothered to confide in Kadhim knowing that, should they survive the perils of the voyage, she would receive a new name fitting for a harem girl...the girl had come around. With dolorous steps she padded towards the skiff, lifting her naked ankles across the thwarts and sitting down on a plank, facing me with sad, uncomprehending eyes. Then they shoved off, making fast towards the lateen merchantman, itself weighing anchor and riding low in the water, stocked to the gunwales with the wares of Regrado and barely waiting to receive its last item of trade.

She receded, an ever diminishing figure in the bobbing skiff. I watched their progress until I was sure that they would attain their rendezvous with the merchantman, and as I watched I was startled by a drop of moisture which ran down my face. I looked up to heaven to see if the squalls of the Adriatic had come, unseasonably, upon us, but I could see nothing but the canopy of stars, soon to be outshined by the rays of morning. Then I realized that somewhere within me the alembic of my soul and fractured, if only a little, and on its surface had formed that uncanny dew which lesser men call tears. Thinking thus, I shuddered at the narrowness of my escape, and knew that all my schemes, my plans, my championship of justice, would have, if my heart had broke a moment sooner, like the beam of a ship breaking before attaining the safety of its harbor, been sent down into the depths of utter ruin.

For what is it, wise Telesio, which makes us different from other men, and able to grab the reins of fate, and to do miracles but this, that we know the cost of everything. Moreover that these costs are not measurable in gold and silver or any other corruptible coin but in substances far more refined and invisible to mortal senses. Thus I turned my back to the sea and set out for the ever hospitable booths of Regrado’s bankers, knowing that my six hundred florins counted for less than a featherweight in scales far more precise than theirs. This true accounting, if it could be measured at all, would be best assayed in terms of time and space. For, as the one who had once been know as Leonora was being wafted eastward into the morning darkness of the Adriatic, I without princess or prevarication would ride west for Parva, and tender my report to Fra Scarpiglione, that cynosure of a greater darkness. That each of us rapidly approached our doom, so much could be seen without any effort of divination, but that we were both arms of a larger equilibrium was outside the synopsis of all but the eye of providence...and perchance the likes of you my friend.