“Anshar’s holy member,” Diego gasped. “Have you ever seen hair that color?”
Arturo glanced quickly at the old man, but he showed no sign of understanding his partner’s colorful oath. “No,” he said quietly. “Give me your canteen.”
Diego gripped his arm and leaned close. “She’s hours from death, brother,” he murmured, not without sympathy. “There’s no use wasting water on her. We should give it to the old man and the boy.”
“And leave her here to rot?” he hissed, grabbing the canteen from his partner’s hand.
“You…heal?” the old man asked, leaning forward expectantly.
“I will try,” Arturo said, and offered silent promises to the God that if she should live, he would not miss evening rituals for a month once they returned to civilization. Two months, even, he thought as he tipped the canteen carefully above her lips.
A drop of water fell upon her mouth, and suddenly a fine-boned hand was gripping his wrist, urging the canteen closer.
For years to come, Arturo was never certain of what happened next. One moment the dying woman was gripping his arm, and in the next moment there was a flood in the desert. More precisely, a flood emerged from his half-empty canteen.
The water poured outward in a sizable torrent across the woman’s face and chest. It ran in thick, steady streams over her hair and gown, soaking her body in moments. Dimly he could hear Diego cursing, an unusual thread of fear in his voice. The old man and boy were on their feet, fluttering about excitedly.
After some time, the deluge eased and the fingers on his arm relaxed. The woman’s hand fell limply to her side. Freed from her vice-like grip, Arturo scrambled back and to his feet. The horses were throwing their heads against the reins Diego held, eyes rolling with distress.
“Bellamont, what was that?”
He looked at his partner, knew that Diego’s panicked, wide-eyed expression was a mirror of his own. With effort, he schooled his features and looked down at the woman. He opened his mouth to reply, but managed only to exhale loudly as long, dark eyelashes fluttered.
The boy had knelt again beside her head and was grunting and making strange keening noises. “He does not speak,” said the old man, lined face split by a wide smile.
Remembering himself, Arturo handed the canteen to him. “Drink, father,” he said, and watched with sustained astonishment as more clear water issued from the mouthpiece. The old man swallowed convulsively, spilling more than he drank, but the reviving effects of the fluid were immediate and astonishing.
Convinced that the heat had finally scattered his wits, he looked at Diego. His partner was in the process of shaking his head, gazing uncomprehendingly at the canteen.
“Finnéces,” a voice croaked.
The old man shoved the canteen into the boy’s chest and fell to the ground beside the woman. He took her hands and lifted them to his face, babbling again in that strange, fluid language he had spoken earlier. Though his body had no store of moisture for tears, his speech was interspersed with wrenching cries of joy.
A string of Diego’s most vulgar oaths ran through Arturo’s mind as he watched the woman’s body miraculously stir. She said something more, then moaned in pain, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Don’t move,” he heard himself say. “You must rest awhile.”
Her head jerked toward the sound of his voice. She whispered something to the old man, and Finnéces babbled happily some more. Drawing some unfathomable conclusion from his words, the woman nodded and relaxed.
“My lady, do you speak our language?” Diego asked. Arturo looked sharply at his partner, who never in all their years together had spoken in such a polite, respectful tone.
Finnéces whispered more into her ear. She turned her head toward them, and no amount of hardening by war and death could prevent the two men from taking a singular, immediate step back.
Her eyes were open now, and the irises were a startling, intense blue. A shade of blue like a mountain lake after thaw, cool and clear and deep beyond imagining.
“Little,” she whispered, looking at his partner. “Thank you… water.”
The swarthy skin of Diego’s face was noticeably darker than usual. “You’re welcome, my lady,” he said stiffly.
“Messenger,” she sighed. Her eyes closed and opened again, and though he had seen their color, Arturo knew that nothing could have prepared him for having their gaze upon him. “You heard me.”
He forced his gaze away from her eyes, looking instead at her blistered lips. “You should not speak,” he said. “Save your energy, for we must transport you across the desert into Tanalon.” Though he doubted it, he added, “You need medical care. The physicians in Vianalon are the finest in the world.”
“Vianalon,” she murmured. “Yes. Must go… Academe des Viana.”
Upon her words, an entirely odd feeling crept across Arturo’s scalp. For several moments the words merely filtered through his mind, like leaves beginning the slow, downward journey of winter’s rest. Then all at once memory flooded him, intensifying his vertigo, clouding his vision.
The Academe des Viana was the most renowned center of learning on the entire Calabrian peninsula. It was also highly difficult to gain access to, almost a city unto itself within Vianalon. It had been the location of his last task in King Armando’s service, six summers before: ending the life of an Adept Scholar whose growing popularity among the people was owed to scathing treatises exploring the opulence and debauchery of Tanalon’s clergy and nobility, including that of its king.
Many men had felt the touch of his blades, but never one he had loved.
“Why?” he asked, voice harsh to his ears. “Why do you want to go there?”
Something flickered in her eyes, a sharp, clever intelligence that raked him deep inside. Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile, or a frown. Her eyes stayed level on his, even as they started to glaze over.
“For remembering,” she whispered vaguely, eyelids falling closed.
Diego dropped to one knee and felt for the pulse in her neck. “She’s asleep,” he said, with a dark, somber glance at Arturo. He knew well what memories were roused by mention of the Academe. With lithe grace, he moved to his feet and drew Arturo toward the horses.
“Are you certain you want to go back there?” he asked intently, narrow face creased with worry.
Arturo shrugged with feigned casualness, blinking hard to clear the last gauzy webs of memory. “We knew it would happen someday,” he said. “Six years is a decent span of time to be in exile.”
“Maybe they’ll wait a week or two before torturing and hanging us,” Diego said bitingly.
He tried to smile, managing instead a grimace. “Well, a week or more of drinking, dicing, and women in Thieves Alley doesn’t sound like such a bad way to prepare for death.”
“There are no women in the dungeon,” his partner snapped. “At least none you’d want within twenty feet.”
Arturo sighed and ripped the protective scarf from his head. The sun crawled along his exposed hair, eating the moisture from his dark curls. “You’re right,” he said decisively. “We’ll take them as far as the border, then arrange for horses and a guide to carry them to Vianalon. Deal?”
Diego nodded, but his eyes stayed worried. “Deal.”
Chapter Three
Leaving an old man, a mute boy, and an unconscious woman at the first border town was not as easy as they’d hoped. Nor was it merely difficult; it was strictly impossible. Unluckily, the first town they came to as they left the Wasteland was a clustering of shabby wooden buildings filled to the seams with unwashed families. At the sight of Arturo and Diego, not to mention the human burdens they carried on their saddles and on a makeshift sled between their horses, the thirty or so townspeople gathered to watch them with tired, suspicious expressions.
What
put the look upon the faces of the men and women, however, had more to do with the expectancy of them asking for food or water, rather than the customary fear of exposure to the crown. For neither Arturo nor Diego were unfamiliar with the sight before them, particularly on journeys along or across the border of the Wasteland. These were merely several of the hundreds of families who had at some point decided to leave tithes and overlords behind—for honorable or dishonorable reasons—and try their luck near the desert, pumping brown water from tired wells and coaxing meager crops from the sandy dirt with one or two tired mules.
It was very common, these people’s plight. They would wring the stubborn land of whatever sustenance was available, then move on. From the visible state of things, within the season this makeshift town would be gone, the families with it. Always moving, always hoping for an oasis they could finally call home.
They rode through without stopping.
By the end of their third day of travel the landscape had begun to change. Sagebrush and withered groundcover gave way to greener life. The flatland undulated around them in what might be referred to, by a gracious soul, as hills. Soon the coarse sands of the desert melted into darker soil, though still nowhere as fertile as that of the river valley toward which they headed.
They set up camp near the roadside, finishing the last of Diego’s store of dried meats and fruits, and forcing more water down the blue-eyed woman’s throat. They rose at dawn, packed the horses and secured the pallet between them, and set off again, south-east toward the Viana River and the city that thrived on its eastern bank.
Sometime over the last days, the two exiled soldiers had come to a silent agreement. Despite the deal they had made it soon became apparent that, for good or ill, they could not leave the strange woman and her companions at the mercy of strangers.
Diego, who had a nephew born a mute, was in the process of teaching young Edan to speak with his hands. Likewise, Arturo soon found himself developing a liking to the spry, intelligent Finnéces. There was nothing like days in the same saddle to forge lasting friendship, or hatred, between men.
Finnéces was eager to fill the gaps in his knowledge of Common, and as Arturo complied, the story of the woman’s origins began to emerge. With subtle prodding, he also managed to glean the message that had supposedly been sent, and to which he had supposedly responded.
The Gardens of Almhain are no more.
Almhain, the legendary site where the God and Goddess had been born. The gardens that had arisen spontaneously at their births were also legendary, if not mythical, in beauty and proportion. Withered by sword and put to torch by hordes of demons, or so the old man proclaimed.
Arturo thought it more probable that the invaders had been mortal men, and from Finnéces’ descriptions he surmised they were the equally legendary, bloodthirsty Volgsmen, sailing from their distant, icy northlands to murder, pillage and raze.
And so it seemed that a likely impersonal act of war had brought the fabled Isle of Dusk into history again, only to mark its passing.
There would be no more dreams of retirement across the West Sea, of respite for aging soldiers among golden-skinned maidens. According to Finnéces, there were none left. Every inhabitant of the small, sacred isle, from elders to babes, had been put to the sword. No maidens left but for the one tied to a makeshift pallet between their horses.
Nor was the final daughter of Alesia’s line just any maiden. Her name was Isidora Fiannan, and her father and mother had been Lord and Lady Fiannan, chosen by the Goddess to rule the isle and keep safe the Gardens of Almhain.
It was no wonder, then, that Isidora sought the Academe des Viana. For remembering, she had said. She wanted her tale told, her people and isle remembered.
There was no choice in the matter, really, for either Arturo or Diego. They would risk stoning, skinning, and hanging to see the Lady Fiannan of Alesia safely to Vianalon.
*
On the fifth night they reached a sizable village. Not sizable enough that either of the wanted men would be recognized, but it did boast a relatively pest-free inn. The horses, even their fine breeding bending beneath fatigue, happily succumbed to the ministrations of awed stable lads. With silver marks assuring continued food and pampering for the stallions, Arturo set about securing rooms for his party.
The tavern beneath the inn was a seedy place, floorboards stained with food and bodily byproducts resistant to scrubbing. The innkeeper matched the theme, emerging from the kitchens to wipe greasy hands down the discolored apron barely covering his belly.
He stared at Arturo with beady, mistrustful eyes. “What do you want?” he growled.
“Three rooms upstairs,” he said calmly, “a meal—fresh meat, mind you—and two bottles of your finest wine to go with it. Hot baths, too, for five people.”
“You got money?” the innkeeper asked, eying his dusty clothes and unkempt beard.
Arturo sent a gold crown sailing toward the man. Greedy fingers caught it midair and brought it to graying teeth. Satisfied with the quality of the coin, the innkeeper grunted.
“There’s another crown for you in the morning, if my requests have been met sufficiently.”
A sparkle appeared in the small black eyes. “Certainly, milord,” he said, jowls quivering like custard as he bobbed his head. “Gerard Sanchez at your service.” He paused for a laughable bow, then straightened, squaring his narrow shoulders. “Might I ask your name, milord, to know what personage I’m serving?”
“Arturo de Galván.”
There were only a handful of people on the peninsula who knew his birth name. Arturo was rather common; de Galván his seldom used surname. He was Bellamont, or Black Bellamont, or Bellamont linked to some other ridiculous combination of words. The last title he’d heard that was popular among troubadours in Vianalon was Bellamont the Scourge of Innocents.
“Milord de Galván,” the innkeeper gushed, pretending to know him. “It is an honor to serve you.”
“Yes, it is,” he snapped.
Taking his cue, the innkeeper disappeared through the curtains behind him, bellowing at his servants.
*
Isidora awoke to darkness and unfamiliar surroundings. There was a lumpy mattress beneath her, relatively soft blankets covering her body. A moment later she realized that she was not wearing her gown, and the hair beneath her cheek smelled of linden flowers.
As she opened her mouth to call for Finnéces, there was a sudden birth of light across the room, highlighting the dark shape of a man. Much too tall and broad to be Finnéces. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs, fingers convulsing on the blanket. She sucked in breath to scream.
“I apologize if I’ve frightened you, my lady,” he said softly, bringing the lamp to rest on the bedside table.
Isidora swallowed her cry with a gasp. Pulling the blankets to her chin, she squinted to make out his features in the dark. She could tell only that he was very large, with an unruly mane of dark curls. His face stayed just outside the sphere of light as he took up a chair beside the bed.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“The messenger,” he said, with a touch of irony. “I’m watching over your life tonight. Your companions needed rest.”
Hazy impressions of unbearable thirst, of the blessed touch of water, then darkness again. One thing, however, she knew for certain. “You are not the messenger.”
The man shrugged. “I figured you would realize it when you awoke.” He paused, shifted his bulk in the chair. “I heard no call of yours, though I am aggrieved to hear of Alesia’s ruin.”
She turned her head on the pillow, aware that the lamp had been illumining her face. She did not want him to see her pain. Eyes tightly closed, she murmured, “Where are you taking us?”
“To the capital city of Tanalon and the Academe des Viana, as per your request.”
The wor
ds brought a slight but potent wash of relief; still, she asked skeptically, “Why do you help us?”
He made a small noise in his throat. “For a women who’s been unconscious for a week, you have regained your wits astoundingly fast.”
She turned to look at him, saw that he leaned forward now, elbows balanced on knees. His face was clear, and for a moment she merely stared. Dark eyes commanded attention beneath a smooth, tanned brow. His bones were broad but finely carven, impassively beautiful, like the polished stone statue of the God in Almhain. Long, straight nose, full lips curved in a natural expression of humor, or distaste. It was a fearful face, a strong face, too much like the virile impressions of the God in her mind to put her at ease.
“What do you gain from this act of altruism?” she demanded again.
He blinked in surprise, then smiled thinly. “Quite the opposite of nothing, my lady, but you needn’t concern yourself with that.”
She frowned and readjusted the blankets, suddenly aware again of the movement of cloth on her naked body. She glanced quickly at the man, but could read nothing in his dark eyes. “Finnéces and Edan, they are well?” she asked to divert herself.
He nodded. “Very well, considering. The boy has nightmares still, but his appetite has returned. Finnéces seems to be a scholar at heart, and thinks of a new question every minute.”
She smiled in spite of herself, then frowned abruptly. “What language are we speaking?” she asked stiffly.
Dark, sculpted brows rose. “We speak Common, my lady.”
“And Finnéces has learned it fully?” she pressed.
The Gardens of Almhain Page 2