Rebel Genius Read online

  Zanobius waited for the word to let the duke go, but instead his master ordered him to end Duke Oberto’s life.

  It was as simple as snapping a twig.

  7

  THE WELLSPRING

  The day after the incident with the mandorla, Giacomo skipped his lessons, preferring instead to try out the softness of all eighty-six cushioned benches and chairs throughout the villa. But he couldn’t get comfortable. He asked Signora Barrolo to bring his meals to his room, where he and Mico ate alone. But no matter how much food he stuffed in his mouth, he never felt full.

  He still couldn’t face Milena after what he’d done to her. He kept replaying the accident over in his mind—the blazing heat, the strange whip of fire, her tormented scream.

  Aaminah stopped by to check on him, the first time to let him know that Milena’s arm was healing up nicely, which he was glad to hear, though it did little to ease his guilt. Later, Aaminah burst into his room, full of wonder and amazement. “Pietro told us you opened the Wellspring! How did it happen?” She wanted to know more about his unique new power. Giacomo avoided her eager but annoying questions by saying he wasn’t feeling so good, which was half true. He had no words to explain how he’d summoned the Wellspring, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find them. Part of him believed if he ignored what he’d done for long enough, it would be like it had never occurred.

  But two things prevented Giacomo from going into full denial. The first was his Genius. Every time Giacomo lounged on a new cushy seat, Mico chirped in disapproval and pecked him on the head. Geniuses thrived when an artist drew, painted, or sculpted. Without a creative outlet, Mico grew restless.

  The second and harsher of the two was Baldassare Barrolo. That evening, a pounding on Giacomo’s door awoke him from a nap. Baldassare marched in and stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

  “Pietro told me what happened. Is it true you haven’t been to the studio all day?”

  “Yes, signor.”

  “Having access to the Wellspring is something most artists would embrace,” he lectured. “You should be jumping at the chance to learn more about it.”

  “I’m not most artists.” Giacomo pulled the covers over his head.

  Baldassare yanked them back off. “I’d like you to come with me. There’s something you need to see.”

  Giacomo wasn’t in the mood for an argument, so he begrudgingly rolled out of bed. “Fine.”

  Baldassare led him through the maze of hallways, finally stopping in front of an immense wooden door secured by a thick iron bar. Baldassare rotated a series of numbers and symbols on a cylinder built into the lock, triggering a metallic clunk. He lifted the bar and pushed the door open. He took a torch off the wall and led Giacomo inside.

  Giacomo’s eyes widened and his mouth went slack. The light flickered through the cavernous room, falling on stacked paintings, burlap-covered sculptures crowded together, and piles of rolled-up tapestries.

  “This is a small sample of the art the Supreme Creator has banned,” Baldassare said. “I’ve purchased these pieces little by little over the years in … well, what you might call ‘unusual’ ways and places.”

  “I’ve heard rumors of a black market. I didn’t know it was real.”

  “Very real, if you know the right people. Which I do. And this is what I’ve amassed over the years.”

  Mico flew in loops, making excited whirring sounds. Giacomo would have done the same if he had wings. His sour mood gave way to excitement. He ran from painting to painting, barely looking at one before another caught his eye.

  The heroes in these artworks weren’t mythic figures, emperors, or the Supreme Creator, but ordinary people: a young girl holding bright yellow flowers, a group of colorfully dressed musicians playing in a piazza, a hunched farmer and his horses plowing a green field. It baffled Giacomo that the Supreme Creator was threatened by these. And it wasn’t fair that all this amazing art was covered up and hidden away.

  “People should be able to see your collection,” Giacomo said.

  “I completely agree with you. But as long as Supreme Creator Nerezza is in power, these masterpieces will remain here.”

  Giacomo bristled at the mention of her name.

  Baldassare stepped toward two paintings covered with white sheets. “But the real reason I brought you in here was to show you these.”

  He pulled back the sheets, unveiling two portraits: one of a mother and her baby, the other of a father with a young boy. A chill shot through Giacomo. He recognized his face in theirs. He shared his mother’s large brown eyes and full lips; his wavy brown hair and bulbous nose were both thanks to his father.

  “I imagine you thought you’d never see these again,” Baldassare said.

  Giacomo nodded, his eyes still on the paintings. “When Nerezza’s soldiers took my parents’ Geniuses away, they took all their paintings too. How did you get these? I always assumed Nerezza had them destroyed.”

  “As far as she knows, they were,” Baldassare said with a smug smile. “Being Minister of Culture has allowed me to secretly divert illegal art from the palace’s furnaces to my vault. When Pietro mentioned your family name, I knew it sounded familiar, so I checked the arrest records. Sure enough, Amera and Orsino Ghiberti’s names were inscribed there. Finding their paintings among my collection took a little digging, but here they are.”

  The paintings once hung over the hearth in Giacomo’s house. His father must have painted the one of his mother when Giacomo was only a few days old. His mother had painted the other one a couple years later. He had a vague memory of being four and pointing up at the portraits, yelping, “Me, me, me!” His parents were delighted that he saw himself in their work.

  “The tragic part is, your parents might have been able to save their Geniuses,” Baldassare said.

  “What do you mean? How?”

  “The Supreme Creator made them an offer: if they helped her, she would let their Geniuses live. But they refused.”

  Giacomo could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Helped her with what?”

  Baldassare didn’t answer his question. He flung the sheets back over the paintings, covering Giacomo’s parents. “You could be a part of bringing this art into the light of day again.”

  He escorted Giacomo out and closed the door, then locked the iron bar back in place.

  “I know you must have many questions. Meet me in my study in an hour, and I’ll help you find some answers.” Baldassare returned the torch to its stand and walked away.

  Giacomo lingered at the door, thinking about his parents’ paintings, locked away with so many others, like they were the Supreme Creator’s prisoners. They seemed destined to decay in the dark.

  But maybe it didn’t have to be that way.

  * * *

  Curious to find out why his parents had refused to help Nerezza, Giacomo made his way to Baldassare’s study later that evening. Baldassare greeted him at the doorway with a big smile.

  “Glad you could make it!” Baldassare ushered Giacomo and his Genius in.

  To Giacomo’s surprise, Pietro, Aaminah, Milena, and Savino were present too. He had thought it was going to be a private meeting, so why were they all there? He was about to turn around and leave, but Baldassare had already shut the doors.

  The study was paneled in dark wood. Shelves of books and scrolls towered along each wall, floor to ceiling. A gold stand in the corner held a globe so large Giacomo doubted he could wrap his arms around it.

  Mico swooped through the room and landed on the back of a chair next to Gaia, Nero, and Luna, who all welcomed him with happy chirps. Giacomo wished he felt as accepted by the group. But after deliberately avoiding everyone all day, what did he expect? To be greeted with cheers and hugs?

  Aaminah looked up at him and smiled, which helped relax him a bit. But Savino stayed slumped on the chair, refusing to make eye contact. Pietro leaned against Baldassare’s massive desk, which was covered with stacks
of books and piles of parchments. Milena glanced at Giacomo coldly, cradling her left arm, which was wrapped in translucent cotton. He guessed the damage done by the Wellspring was beyond Aaminah’s skill to fully heal it.

  “We are faced with a serious predicament,” Baldassare said, pacing around his desk. “I received word from an art dealer I do business with, in the north of Mardovino. He was recently attacked by two men, one of whom had eight limbs.”

  “Impossible!” Pietro exclaimed.

  “It seems Ugalino has finally come out of hiding.” Baldassare leaned forward. “And my guess is he’s making a play for the Sacred Tools.”

  “But we’re not ready,” Milena said, looking unnerved.

  Nothing Baldassare and Pietro had said made any sense. How could an eight-limbed man exist? Who was Ugalino? Why was Baldassare talking about the Sacred Tools as if they were real? And what did any of it have to do with Giacomo?

  But before Giacomo could voice any of his questions, Baldassare continued: “We all knew this moment would come. It is the reason you’ve all been studying and training so hard. I had hoped we would have a lead on the Sacred Tools before Ugalino, but no matter. It simply means we’ll need to move more quickly.”

  Savino stood up. “I’m ready, just give us the go-ahead.”

  “But we still have no idea where to start,” Milena argued. “We can’t randomly wander around Zizzola, hoping one of the Sacred Tools will magically reveal itself. The key to finding them is buried somewhere in those, I’m sure of it.” She gestured to the books and parchments on the desk. “We’re close. We must just be overlooking something.”

  “Burying your head in books hasn’t helped us so far,” Savino said. “What makes you think it will make a difference now?”

  With a wave of his hand, Pietro silenced Savino. “Enough. Milena’s right, we can’t send you off without a plan. Especially if Ugalino is on the offensive.”

  “I’m with Savino,” Baldassare said. “We can’t afford to sit back any longer. We need to make a move now.”

  “Only a fool would journey without a destination!” Pietro shouted.

  “I’m not in the mood for your wise quips!” Baldassare shot back.

  “Excuse me, Signor Barrolo?” Giacomo interrupted. “But I thought you had something important to tell me about my parents. Did they have anything to do with this Ugalino guy? Who is he anyway?”

  Everyone fell silent. Pietro reached out, his hand finding the back of a chair. He fell into the seat as if the weight of his bones was too much to carry. “Ugalino could have been one of the greatest artists ever to live,” he said bitterly. “But seventeen years ago, he created a work of art so menacing, Nerezza ordered him to destroy it.”

  “So even back then, she was threatened by what artists painted,” Giacomo commented.

  Pietro’s expression turned grim. “Ugalino’s creation wasn’t an ordinary work of art. It was a Tulpa.”

  Giacomo drew a blank. “What’s a Tulpa?”

  “A living, breathing, thinking statue,” Pietro explained. “Ugalino’s Tulpa has skin as white as marble, four arms and four legs, and the strength of twenty men. He even gave it a name—Zanobius.”

  Giacomo couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept. “That’s impossible. Artists can’t create living things … can they?”

  “Throughout history, artists have experimented with infusing life into statues,” Baldassare said. “But compared to what Ugalino accomplished, they were like children playing with clay.”

  “Making a Tulpa was arrogant and misguided,” Pietro complained. “Ugalino should have left the work of creation to the Creator.”

  Sounds like Ugalino and Nerezza have a lot in common, Giacomo thought. They both think they’re better than the Creator.

  “Nerezza believed the Tulpa was a challenge to her authority,” Baldassare continued. “She feared Ugalino might create an army of Tulpas to overthrow her, so she and her soldiers attacked and destroyed Zanobius. But weeks later, he rose again, as strong as ever. Ugalino had used his knowledge and power to rebuild him, proving his Tulpa could not be killed by ordinary means.”

  “Nerezza redoubled her efforts and went after Ugalino and Zanobius again, finally driving them out of the city,” Pietro said. “But in the course of the battle, many lives were lost at the hands of that creature. Some were Nerezza’s soldiers, but others were innocent civilians, in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Pietro took a deep breath. “Nerezza chased them through Zizzola for years. Everywhere the Tulpa went, it left behind death and destruction.”

  Baldassare picked up the story. “After a while, the Supreme Creator lost their trail and abandoned the hunt. She assumed they had found refuge in one of the other empires. But she’s always been on alert, waiting for the moment when Ugalino and his creature would show their faces again.”

  “So that’s why Nerezza began killing off Geniuses,” Giacomo realized.

  Pietro nodded. “She began to see every artist as a potential threat. As the Geniuses were wiped out, their artists started losing their minds, becoming Lost Souls.”

  “And a gloom has clouded Virenzia ever since,” Baldassare added. “Like a painting that’s faded.”

  Sadness and anger swirled within Giacomo. He looked to Baldassare. “Is that what Nerezza asked my parents to do? Help her fight Ugalino and his Tulpa?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “But they refused to use their Geniuses against another artist.”

  Giacomo’s first thought was, Good for them. The fact that his parents had stood up to the Supreme Creator only made him more proud. Of course, if they hadn’t stuck their necks out, maybe someone like Baldassare would have taken them in and protected their Geniuses. He felt a twinge of sorrow. In standing up for their beliefs, his parents had sacrificed their family.

  Giacomo changed the subject to something less upsetting. “The Sacred Tools Ugalino wants—are you talking about the Creator’s Compass, Straightedge, and Pencil?”

  “The very ones,” Baldassare declared.

  “But I thought they were just a myth to explain how the world was created. They’re not real … are they?”

  “Are they not?” Pietro said. “Over the ages, philosophers, alchemists, and artists have delved into the myth’s origins and found clues indicating that the Sacred Tools are in fact physical objects.”

  Physical? Giacomo wondered. His mind flashed back to the Wellspring. The upside-down V he’d seen inside the mandorla was the same shape as a drafting compass. That had to mean something.

  “Each Tool possesses a unique power,” Baldassare explained. “The Compass controls light; the Straightedge, energy; and the Pencil, matter.”

  “The Compass can create a portal that lets you travel thousands of miles in an instant,” Milena said.

  “However, its power limits you to only places you’ve been,” Pietro added. “You must be able to form a clear picture in your mind’s eye of where you want the Compass to take you.”

  Milena continued: “Now, the Straightedge will allow an artist to—”

  “What does the Compass look like?” Giacomo blurted out.

  Milena looked annoyed.

  “Sorry I cut you off, but I really need to know.”

  With a sigh, Milena picked up a book and flipped through its pages.

  “It’s a Compass,” Savino said. “Hinge at the top, two pointy legs…”

  “Here.” Milena shoved an open book into Giacomo’s arms. The page showed an illustration of the Creator’s Compass.

  The Compass in the image had long legs that tapered to points and a short handle at the top. Giacomo was deflated. “I’m not sure if it’s the same as the one—”

  “The same as what one?” Milena interrupted.

  “I saw something inside the mandorla. It had the shape of a compass, but things were so chaotic and hazy I couldn’t make it out clearly. I thought maybe it was the Creator’s Compass.”

  “Why didn’t you tell
us this before?” Baldassare said excitedly. “Milena, did you see it too?”

  “No. I just remember Giacomo yelling about something.”

  Baldassare whooped and slapped Giacomo on the back. “You may have just given us the break we’ve been waiting for!”

  “How is this going to help us?” Savino scoffed. “Giacomo said he saw a compass, not the Compass.”

  “I suspect they are one and the same,” Pietro said. “Because here’s what I do know: in a life-or-death moment, Giacomo somehow tapped into a source of energy and was healed. When he came to, his Genius appeared. Then, when that very same Genius helped form the mandorla, the channel of energy opened again.”

  “You mean the Wellspring?” Milena asked.

  “Yes. So this is no coincidence. Giacomo is meant to help us find the Sacred Tools.”

  Milena, Savino, and Aaminah stared at Giacomo with a mix of awe and skepticism, as if Pietro had proclaimed him the boy who would save all of Zizzola. Giacomo looked fixedly at the floor.

  “When we found you, all you told us was that your Genius just showed up,” Savino said. “You didn’t say anything about nearly being killed or that you could open the Wellspring.”

  “Yeah, you might’ve mentioned you could tap into the ultimate force of energy in the universe,” Milena said, with an edge in her voice.

  Giacomo wrung his hands together. “I didn’t know what happened that first time … or that it would happen again … I don’t understand any of it!”

  “The important thing now is that you work with Pietro to hone your skills,” Baldassare said, trying to calm Giacomo. “My hope is that the Wellspring will tell you more about where the Compass might be located.”

  Giacomo backed away from Baldassare. “I don’t want to open it again, not after what happened to Milena.” He approached her, his emotions spilling out. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been avoiding you because I felt horrible about hurting you.”

  Milena ran her fingers across her bandage, her expression softening. “It was an accident.”