Arturo didn’t like the man, much less trust him, but he had to bestow a grudging respect.
The only glimmer of his host’s scope of influence was supplied as the two men parted ways outside the dining room, long after Diego had left them. The large man gripped his shoulder and stared him in the eye, all traces of nonchalance gone.
“The tides of power on the peninsula are shifting, Bellamont. The Church has grown all-powerful in Vianalon, greater even than the crown, and it seems the High Cleric wants you and your friends dead. I advise you to choose another destination.”
All this Arturo had foreseen years ago, but hearing it was still shocking. “What has happened to the king?” he asked quietly.
“Armando fell ill this winter,” Rodrigo said gravely. “He was a ruthless ruler, and the God knows I detested the man, but he was shrewd too, and could outwit the clerics most days. Princess Serephina is not faring so well.”
Her name brought a vision of dark, half-lidded eyes and naked arms reaching toward him. And another of her face, lovely features distraught as he’d bid her farewell on a misty dawn six years before. He blinked, blaming his distraction on his weariness, and overindulgence in a fine vintage of Greiza Red.
“Thank you for the warning,” he managed. He paused as a thought occurred, then pitched his voice low, “The price on my head, is it still in effect?”
Rodrigo grinned, a grisly expression by torchlight. “The only issue of state on which the princess managed to put her foot down is just that. Not only is the order of execution upon you lifted, but you are urged by royal command to return at all haste to the capital city.”
“And were you planning on telling me that if I hadn’t asked?”
Rodrigo’s grin widened. “It’s not in my nature to give anything away for free.”
With that, his host clapped him hard on the back and walked away, chuckling to himself. Arturo watched him go, and when he was alone on the walkway he leaned wearily against a wall, drawing his hands swiftly through his hair in an effort to clear his muddled thoughts.
A hint of the soft, sensuous fragrance that he remembered from her skin as she’d clung to him earlier was the only advance warning he had of her presence. He lifted his head, too tired to be surprised as Isidora Fiannan stepped into the light from an adjacent courtyard.
He grunted. “It seems strange to me that with all the guards roaming this place, no one noticed you slinking about in the dark.”
She shrugged one shoulder, the motion drawing his gaze down from her shadowed face to the gown she wore. The blue dress was gone, too damaged from the day’s ordeal to be salvaged. In its place she wore a concoction that did nothing to ease his already strained nerves. It was some pale green color with sleeves capped on her shoulders, allowing free viewing of her long neck, delicate collarbones, and slender golden arms. The fabric hung close to her graceful torso and fell in folds around her legs. A white sash, the only item saved from her previous ensemble, was knotted low on her hips.
In his right mind, he knew that the gown was modest by Vianalon’s standards. Tonight, though, it might as well have been transparent, for all it did to conceal his view of the body beneath.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked hoarsely.
“I slept all afternoon and evening,” she replied. “I am quite rested, thank you.”
Her voice did strange things to his head; he shook it to clear the haze, but wished he hadn’t bothered as he suffered mild disorientation. “I’m sick of evasiveness,” he said, staring determinedly into her eyes. “Why is it that no one found you wandering tonight? There are at least four guards within twenty paces of us.”
“I am the High Priestess of Istar,” she said with a spark of defiance. “The Goddess is in her element at night, and therefore so I am.”
“Lower your voice,” he hissed. He heard footfalls nearing the walkway and moved forward, taking her arm and steering her into the unlit courtyard. They waited behind a pillar until the guards had passed.
“Unhand me,” a voice breathed along his cheek.
“Not yet,” he said, keeping her pressed against the pillar with his hands encircling her upper arms. Her features were pale and haughty in the starlight. He wanted to kiss her, to watch her eyes darken to the blue of midnight. Instead, he cursed himself for a drunken fool and tightened his grip until she gasped. “What does the Church want with you, Lady Fiannan of Alesia, other than to burn you for heresy?” he murmured.
She spoke through clenched teeth, “You are hurting me.”
He smiled tightly. “I’m not going to release you until you tell me the truth. What do you have that the High Cleric wants?”
“I don’t know,” she growled, and began to struggle, which resulted initially in the pleasant contact of her body against his. When she landed a kick on his shin, however, he merely gave in to temptation, pressing her against the wall with his weight. She stilled abruptly, though fine tremors ran down her body. “I don’t know why,” she repeated on uneven breath. “I swear to you. I know only what my mother told me before I fled the isle. She warned me that I must always be careful, or what hunted my people would follow me, and finish what was begun.”
Shaken by her words and shamed cold by his actions, Arturo loosened his grip on her arms. He could not yet move away from her, so he stood as still as he could, chin brushing the top of her head. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” he mumbled.
“I may be bruised in the morning, but you did not hurt me,” she said, breath warm on his neck. “I’ve no heart left for pain.”
She slipped away from him, and like the creature of the Goddess she was, disappeared soundlessly into the shadows. Arturo was left with his forehead pressed against the rounded stone blocks of the pillar, wondering as to the last words they’d exchanged, and whether or not either of them had known of what they were speaking.
*
That night, he dreamed of the scholar he had been sent to kill. The colonnades of the Academe des Viana were eerily silent, just as they had been in that late, long ago hour. The soft blue light of the moon slanted in stripes across the tiled floors, giving fantastic dimensions to statues set in alcoves, to his own shadow beside him.
As he walked in the dream, he remembered—just as he had then—Armando’s soft smile as he’d handed him the order. The parchment unrolling to display a single name, printed in the king’s own script. Just a name and its title. The name of a man Arturo loved like the grandfather he’d never known, in whose company alone he felt at peace.
Lucero Tuturro, Adept Scholar.
He looked up from the parchment balled in his fist, into the eyes of the king who had taken him in when he was a disillusioned youth thieving on the streets of Vianalon, given him respect, treated him as he might have a son. Ordered him trained in arms by the finest veiled Dunak assassins, sent him to an ancient, blind alchemist for learning of poisons and qualities of death, had personally tutored him in the dark hours on politics and espionage.
Once, he had loved the man. He might have still loved him, moments before. Now, he looked into the regal face and spat at his feet.
“I will not do this,” he said.
Armando smiled again, that soft, secret smile. “Yes, my boy, you will.” His features hardened like ice, lips forging an unforgiving line. “There is a letter, sealed by the signet of House Caville, waiting to be carried south to the magistrate who oversees the family estate of Ralph and Lucinda de Galván. If you do not wish for your family to pay for the crime of your refusal, you will do this thing. Tonight.”
His mother’s weeping face, his father’s stern, approving one as they’d watched their youngest son leave the family for fortune and fame in Vianalon. It was the first and last time Arturo had seen his mother’s tears. It was the first time he had felt notable in the ever-expanding de Galván family. He thought of his sisters and brothers,
of the letters he received periodically, rich with love and blessings. They thought he was a successful merchant, traveling distant lands, moving in circles of noblemen and kings.
There was no doubt as to what the king’s letter revealed. Their son, their sibling, was a murderer of princes, a stealer of crowns, and no longer in royal service. He was Bellamont, a rogue and a traitor, and his family would be gathered like cattle to be executed in dishonor. Down to the smallest infant, a nephew born last summer to his sister Jacqueline.
“I’ll do it,” he said, and tossed the crumpled parchment into the fire.
The courtyard in the Academe was lit by a single torch, bracketed beside a stout door. Not bothering to disguise his presence or his steps, he left the hood of his cloak down and crossed the open yard. The door creaked open before he reached it, and Lucero Tuturro ushered him within, as he’d done so many times before.
The rich fragrance of incense, the mustiness of books, the sharpness of spilled ink. The learned man’s apartment matched his personality, disordered and beautiful, lit from fires within just as their surroundings were highlighted by the steady glow of candle flames.
“I’ve come to kill you,” he said.
Lucero quirked one thick, white brow. “Yes, I know.”
He couldn’t seem to breathe, whispering hoarsely, “Why did you not sound the alarm?”
The old man sighed as he sank onto a cushioned stool. The unique, three-legged design was a fine testament to Borgetzan craftsmanship, carved from one piece of golden wood. It had been a birthday gift from Arturo last season.
“I’m too old to live through the excitement, I’m afraid.”
He tried to focus on Lucero’s face, creased by lines of laughter and thought. It was increasingly difficult to see through the haze of his tears. The dream grew distorted and dark, candle flames leaping high, blinding him.
Some memories were buried too deep, even for nightmares.
He awoke with a gasp, face down on a soft, wide mattress. Sunlight drifted blearily through gauzy curtains nearby. The hearth fire had gone out and the air was chill, but his body was slick with sweat. He scrubbed roughly at the wetness on his face.
“The dream returned,” Diego said, moving into view beside the bed.
He looked up at his friend, who had found him in the Academe that night, half-mad and raving, and had coaxed him into the streets, through the city and out the gates to where two horses waited by moonlight. Followed him at his mad bidding, back into the city and through rarely traveled passages, into the palace to bid farewell to the princess who was his lover.
He swallowed thickly. “Yes.”
“You did not kill Lucero, Bellamont,” his partner said firmly. “He is safe, living out the rest of his days in anonymity beneath the Academe. He will never write against the crown again, but he is alive.”
Hands of old, graceful bones, ink stained and calloused, tiny bones smashed beyond repair. The right ring finger bare and pale where once the signet of an Adept Scholar had rested. Two eyes, once lustrous and snapping with intellect, never again to look upon written word. Ring and eyes, delivered by courier to the king the morning following.
“I was a coward not to finish it,” he said, which was what he always said, and believed. “He wanted to die, at the end.”
“I was there, brother, at the end. He forgave you, thanked you for his life.”
Arturo threw the blankets from his body and swung his legs to the floor. “I will never forgive,” he said tightly, reaching for his clothes. “We ride today, Diego, and do not stop until we reach the Viana.”
Despite repeated warnings about travel to the capital, and finally a dismissal of their lives to the God’s will, Rodrigo Vasquez agreed to outfit them with provisions, weapons, and fresh horses for the Alesians. By midmorning they were astride, bidding farewell to their unlikely host, his family, and a generous selection of armed, unsmiling men.
In his haste to be free of Rodrigo’s unnerving presence and make haste to Vianalon, it was several hours of travel before Arturo felt calm enough to reflect. Relying on the ingrained skill of assimilating facts for later observation, he remembered acutely the look on Rodrigo’s face as he’d stood in the dirt of his courtyard.
In contrast to the smiling visages of his wife, two sons, and three daughters beside him, the Constable wore a grave, almost sorrowful expression. His dark gaze had been trained on Isidora, sitting astride her palfrey in a crisp navy tunic and leggings as she smiled, conversing with his youngest daughter, Maria.
Only now did it bother Arturo that their host had not once inquired as to the lady’s personage, or why the church soldiers had sought her abduction. An oversight he prayed would not come back to haunt him.
Cursing himself the worst spy in all of Calabria, he finally understood the nature of the Constable’s warning the past night, stemming against odds from informants within the Church itself. It remained a mystery, however, as to what exact threat the last Lady of Alesia, and he himself for that matter, posed to the Church of the God.
Six days of hard travel, avoiding roads and skirting the sprawling estates of nobles, saw them angling south and north again to come at last upon a downward slope into the verdant valley framing the River Viana. Though the land had altered days before, growing ever more abundant in all aspects of life, Arturo himself paid little notice. He was too busy keeping constant watch for assassins; wary of dreaming, he rarely slept, oftentimes sitting watch through the night only to be yawning in the saddle by midday.
The Alesians had returned to full health from their desert trek, and exclaimed animatedly amongst themselves at the swollen spring beauty of the river valley. So close to the royal seat of Tanalon, the land was untilled, free to obey the whims of nature. Ardent wildflowers painted the rolling hills in a great patchworks of color. Aromatic, blossoming trees swayed in a warm breezes and the soil was soft and dark.
For once, though, Arturo rode through the beautiful pastures of high grasses, across meandering streams whose waters were crystalline and cool, and felt no sense of coming home, no growing ease that had accompanied him in past years when he journeyed back to Vianalon from abroad.
He felt only dread for the moment he would look again upon the high walls, colorful flags waving, the gleaming golden dome of the God’s most holy house, the graceful towers and patrolled battlements of the palace.
All that had filled him once with a sense of purpose now left him hollow within.
They left the open country to join a wide, maintained road leading due east, and were soon joined by an increasing number of travelers. Merchants with their wagons loaded high, bound for the capital with their wares. Wandering groups of actors, troubadours, and musicians streamed around them like colorful schools of fish. All heading to the river, and to the barges that could take them across to Vianalon, or south to any number of welcoming ports.
There were personages of the thirteen Noble Houses and favored courtiers. Escorted in colorful, canopied carriages by armed escorts, they were leaving their winter residences for spring and summer in the palace, near the cooling breezes of the river. It was these such parties that Arturo avoided at all cost, often leading his company off the road or amidst the concealing chaos of wagon trains.
No one complained at their erratic progress, at least not in his hearing. He had not spoken a direct word to Isidora since that night in Vallejo a week before, but she seemed to be faring fine without his company. When he looked at her, askance and often, he saw a woman whose face shone with curiosity and not a little apprehension, underlined by royal dignity. Her unusual hair was concealed beneath that white sash of hers, the style of headdress copied from several women actors they’d passed a meal with. It suited her, he thought, emphasizing the clean golden lines of her face and her vivid eyes.
When they reached L’Sere, the bustling port town that had grown up aroun
d the barge station, Arturo left the Alesians in Diego’s care and made his way on foot to the dock. Much had changed since he’d made his first barge crossing as a young man. Then, a collection of dusty streets had intersected several worn inns, gambling halls, and taverns, none of which were known for their reputability.
A few short years later, under much pressure from the Noble Houses, the king had bequeathed his daughter’s name to the port and opened the royal coffers for its restructuring. Now, wide cobbled avenues ran in an ordered grid from L’Sere’s borders, dividing charming blocks of multi-leveled inns, shops, and private residences. Children ran past him, squealing, as mothers followed with baskets of fresh produce or linen. Giggling maidens prowled the streets in troupes, unafraid and flirtatious. Old men wearing wide-brimmed hats gathered on street corners, smoking pipes as they watched the colorful flow of passersby.
Arturo kept his head down, his posture unassuming as possible as he made his way to the bustling riverside square. He stood in the daunting line before the dock-master’s office, lifting his gaze only when, after near an hour, the wide counter was before him.
The man sitting opposite did not bother to return his stare, his jaded gaze trained on an open ledger. “How many men, women, children, wagons, horses, and what time?” he barked.
“Four men and a woman, five horses, and before nightfall today,” Arturo replied.
“Impossible,” the man snapped. “First available space is seven days from now at dawn.”
“Be reasonable, Elazar, unless you want me to spend that time with your wife.”
The lanky, bearded man snapped up his head, face flushed with rage. When he saw to whom he spoke, though, his swarthy skin drained of color. “Great Balls of Anshar, Bellamont, are you mad?” he whispered, eyes darting to the sea of people behind him.
The Gardens of Almhain Page 4