The Wheel of Fortune

The Wheel of Fortune

2210 AD, All Saints Day

Some say that every good story begins with a death, others claim that it begins with lovers meeting. As Providence would have it, this story begins with both, which is only fitting as death and love have always walked hand in hand in the Serene Republic of Venice.

As our tale begins, the life of Alfonso Pisani comes to an end. The salty wind blows off the lagoon, with the promise of winter in its bite, and the doomed Alfonso is led up the wooden steps of the gallows constructed in Saint Mark’s Square. It has been a place of public execution for as long as it has existed, even with its deceptive beauty and reverent holiness.

Despite the miserable weather, the square is packed with Venetian citizens. Everyone, from the Doge on his balcony above to the beggar boy straining for a glimpse below, is present to make sure that Alfonso dies.

His crime, you ask? One of the most despised in all of the New Republic. Alfonso has been caught making tarocchi, the tarot, and imbuing the cards with magic in order to screw with Fate.

In the Republic, tarot cards are carried and consulted by the very poorest to the very richest, and the making of them held as one of the highest callings. To use magic to manipulate cards is the gravest of crimes.

Fate, like the Republic, doesn’t like to be screwed with, and to attempt it is to surrender your life because no mercy will be granted by either. Alfonso was caught in the act. There was not even a trial, and he didn’t defend his innocence.

Fate fucked Alfonso Pisani before Alfonso Pisani could fuck Fate.

The Council of Ten had signed the execution paperwork before gathering on the Doge’s balcony to watch Alfonso die. They know he can use magic, so his guards are trained in battle spells and will be able to counteract any of his attempts to flee.

Alfonso does not attempt it.

His guards carry hexed stiletto’s and artificer’s stun bombs to keep any rogue stregoni in check.

Once the guards would have pointed guns to ensure compliance, but guns were the brutish weapons for the non-magical and banned in the city of Venice. They had a magical weapons trade to protect after all.

After technology failed two hundred years before, magic rose back up and had reigned supreme ever since.

Industrious Venetian artisans had been the first to discover how to fuse and capture magic in their finely blown glass, creating everything from batteries to bombs.

Some of the old technology like lights and phones had also been restored with magical adjustments, but the priority had been modified weaponry to deal with magical threats.

Business had always been revered as much as any saint in Venice, and magic is just something else to trade in.

The ancient blue and gold clock tower chimes to warn the crowds to hurry into the square, for Alfonso’s last dance is about to begin.

Standing behind the Doge and slightly to his right, Domenico Aladoro adjusts the black hood of his cloak of office to try and keep the misting rain from his face.

He wants to be back inside the warmth of his palazzo with spiced wine and a book, but as the youngest member of the Council of Ten, he must put in a reputable appearance. He is, at the very least, mature enough to keep the boredom from his handsome face.

Beneath him, in the crowd of the esteemed Tarot Artisans Guild, stands Maestro Pietro Vianello, the most famous and skilled tarot artist of them all, who also has the honor of having the patronage of the Aladoro family.

Dom catches Maestro Vianello’s eye and gives the old man a nod when his father can’t see. He can still hear Rodrigo chastising him for acknowledging ’the help,’ but Dom knows better. After all, every time he sits down to write, he’s doing it in books made for him by the Vianello family, sends letters using Vianello stationary, and turns tarot cards crafted by Vianello artisans. He doesn’t deem it beneath him to acknowledge the publishers at all.

Dom is still smiling grimly at the old man, so he sees the exact moment when a woman takes his arm. A lover? Not the strangest sight in Venice, especially for a man of fortune. No, the man smiles too fondly for it to be a lover. It is the smile of a father to a beloved daughter.

The Vianello heiress is someone Dom knows of but has never actually seen with his own eyes. In the dreary morning, the woman’s hair sparkles like sunlight under her hood as she follows her father’s gaze. Her eyes are clever and intense, even at a distance, so at odds with her soft red mouth.

Stella. The name finally surfaces from Dom’s memory. He gives her the slightest bow, and her golden brows tighten in a frown. Strange. Women don’t usually frown at the heir of the Aladoro family.

Underneath the balcony, Stella knows she should be interested in the hanging. Alfonso’s fate could so easily end up being her own, but as she catches Dom’s eye again, she’s not thinking of the danger. She doesn’t see the miserable sky and the sad spectacle.

She’s back at Carnevale, surrounded by masks and revelry, the feel of their bodies twining together, and the taste of his spritz-sweetened mouth on hers.

The Prince of Venice. Her forbidden fruit for one Carnevale night, and then gone forever.

Their attention is torn away from each other and back to the doomed Alfonso as he gives his final words:

"Hanging me won’t stop what’s coming, glorified monsters of the Council of Ten! Your wings and scales and fire magic won’t stop the Wheel of Fortune from turning. The Wolf Mage and her army aren’t what you should fear most, you warmongering fools! The blades in the darkness will be your own when you tear each other apart. Your kind couldn’t stop magic from destroying your safe worlds two hundred years ago, and it won’t be stopped now. You think you can control it? Ha!"

Beside Dom, the Doge’s sorcerer, Arkon Ziani, groans under his breath. "I do hate the ramblers."

Beneath them, Stella turns away from Alfonso’s rant and catches Dom’s golden-eyed gaze once more. They stare at each other as Alfonso’s words choke off. The trap door falls away, hemp silencing him forever.

In that second, Dom and Stella share a moment of understanding, a mutual hatred of the sport of a dying man, and both smile sadly at each other.

Neither knows that within a week, Alfonso’s words will be seen as an auguring, and all the secrets they are both protecting will become entangled in the other’s.

You see? Death and lovers, hand in hand, as promised.