Arturo grinned. “Have you ever doubted it?”
Elazar cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, where an assistant was busy counting money. He bent forward and spoke through his teeth, “Come to my home dawn tomorrow. You know I will sail you across myself.”
“I know, old friend,” he admitted. “But I must be inside Vianalon before Spring Festival begins, which, if my dates are correct, is sundown today. Besides, rumor on the road is that passage into the capital is tightly controlled as of late, and I need the diversion of crowds for what I plan.”
The South Sea pirate turned successful dock manager—due in part to Arturo’s talent at entrapping the right men—shook his head, grumbling as he flipped through the pages of his ledger. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “Mid-afternoon today. Bring some official looking document to wave in my face and I’ll let you aboard. I can’t guarantee, though, that you’ll go unrecognized.”
“I wish for the opposite, in fact. Do you still have Diego’s and my uniforms in your attic?”
Elazar’s cheeks puffed in horror. “You really are mad, Bellamont,” he said, exhaling loudly. He slammed the ledger closed. “Yes, I have them. I’m due for midday break. Meet me out back in five minutes.”
Arturo reached across the counter to clasp the man’s hand. “You’re a good friend, Elazar Laroque.” The pirate rocked back in his chair, grimaced, and spat loudly on the planks beneath his feet.
Chapter Five
Diego eyed his old uniform doubtfully. “I’ve never questioned you before, brother…” he trailed off, shaking his head.
Arturo pulled the supple, black leather pants up to his hips and pulled tight the drawstrings. “But you’re questioning me now?” he asked lightly, reaching for the high-collared black blouse of his former station. He slipped his arms into the voluminous sleeves and began fitting the many silver buttons down his chest and at his wrists. As he moved to the mirror to affix the medals of honor on his collar, he saw that Diego had begun stripping to his skin.
“We always rode into the city this way,” he added idly, “why stop now?” There was a loud curse for a reply, but beneath the shirt caught over his head, he knew his friend was grinning.
They sat together on a chest in Elazar’s attic to lace matching, knee-high boots, then stood face to face inspecting each other. With minor adjustments made to the hang of their swordbelts, tuck of their shirts, and the tight queues of their hair, they walked downstairs.
Elazar shook his head upon seeing them, frowning darkly even as his wife, Elena, beamed approval. On Isidora’s face there was no expression at all, while both Finnéces and Edan stared in blatant admiration.
“My, you certainly cut dashing figures,” gushed Elena, a slim hand partially obscuring her smiling mouth.
“Don’t encourage them,” the pirate grumbled. He scanned Arturo dispassionately from crown to feet. “You look a damned sight in all that black.”
Arturo rolled his shoulders back and gave his friend a bland smile. “Given the circumstances, I didn’t think it appropriate to wear the green sash of the Church’s favor. The clerics might be offended into strokes at the sight.”
“Right,” Elazar said ironically. “Ever mindful of clerics, you are.”
“What exactly does your uniform signify?” Isidora asked abruptly, startling silence in the room.
It was Elena who finally replied, casting a disgruntled look at the blank-faced men. “Bellamont is the sword of House Caville, my lady,” she said animatedly. “It is he who takes arms first in Tanalon’s defense, who would lead our men in times of war. In times of peace he is the king’s justice and ambassador. Not even the king of Borgetza dares refuse an audience with him, despite—” She broke off, blushing as Elazar cleared his throat and shifted uneasily toward his young, fanciful wife.
Isidora’s unnerving blue gaze swerved to Arturo. “This is true?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” he said gruffly, looking away from her clear gaze. Diego’s expression was tightly controlled, but his eyes burned hot with emotion. “Do you have the document?” he asked.
“Yes,” Diego said gruffly, handing him a scroll sealed with the forged wax imprint of House Caville.
“Let’s not tarry any longer, then.” He turned to Isidora. “Put on the gown Mistress Vasquez gave you and let down your hair. Elena will see to rouge for your cheeks and color for your lips. Finnéces, Edan, you will be traveling with us in the guise of servants. You must keep your heads down and postures humble, especially when we reach the gates.”
“Of course,” Finnéces replied with a nod.
“Even if you make it through the gates, the church soldiers will stop you before you reach the palace,” Elazar cautioned.
“No, they won’t,” Arturo said, allowing himself a small smile. “On the afternoon before Spring Festival, the Princess Serephina rides through the streets, ending her progress at the God’s Holiest Church in Tanalon for evening prayer among her public.”
Elazar’s reaction was all he expected. “You’re riding for the Church?” he hollered.
Arturo nodded, feeling serene and quite proud of himself. “Not even the clerics are powerful enough to order my arrest in front of the princess and multitudes of worshippers.”
Diego chuckled soundlessly beside him. “About what I said before, questioning your plans…”
He cupped the smaller man’s shoulder and grinned. “I know, friend. I would have kept you better informed, but I only came up with the idea a few minutes ago.”
Diego’s smile faltered and fell. “God have mercy,” he murmured.
*
Isidora obediently followed Elazar’s smiling wife into the spacious, tastefully decorated bedchamber. It was the largest of several rooms located on the second floor of the home, which was set on one of the northernmost blocks of L’Sere. Though she’d seen little of the town proper, she surmised that the Laroque’s lived a unique life of prestige and comfort. The street outside was quiet, shaded by manicured trees, brightened by flowerbeds. A wide lawn sat between the house and the road and generously bordered its sides to grant privacy from neighbors.
From overheard snatches of conversation between Arturo and Diego in the last hours, Isidora had gathered that Elazar was a prominent local authority in the port town. She also knew that he’d once been a notorious pirate, and much of his success was owed to Bellamont’s former influence with the king.
Elena closed the outer door and turned, smiling. “Undress, milady,” she said kindly. “I have seen this gown you’re to wear but for such a festive event as this, I have one that will suit better. We are much the same size, you and I.”
“I am honored, but—”
Elena cheeks blushed scarlet as she rushed on, “I swear, I have never worn the gown I speak of. The colors are much too daring. On you, though, they will be radiant. You must allow me to gift it to you.”
Seeing no alternative that didn’t involve the woman’s hurt feelings, Isidora bowed her head and began unbuttoning her blouse.
She kept her astonishment to herself as Elena proudly swept the gown in question from the back of a dressing cabinet. It was more lovely than anything she’d ever worn in Alesia, and likely worth her weight in gold. The bodice was white, thickly embroidered with intricate golden vines. Flimsy white straps were somehow supposed to cap her shoulders and hold the dress up. The ample skirts varied in consistency and shade, the outer layers fine white mesh, the inner rippling folds cloth-of-gold. It slid over her body like water, settling like a silky glove as Elena moved behind her to tighten the stays.
It was a gown for royalty, and she said as much.
Elena circled around, beaming with pleasure. “It was initially made for a noblewoman, possibly the princess herself. Unfortunately for the seamstress, her husband owed mine a rather large favor.”
Isidora was no
t surprised at the story, given Elazar’s past and his friendship with the equally worldly Bellamont. Wishing suddenly she had denied temptation, she took a breath to say she could not possibly accept this gift. Her words died with a soft sigh as Elena turned her by the arm toward a tall, standing mirror.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she murmured. “But you must wear this, for I know no other way the church soldiers will allow Bellamont passage through the city.”
Isidora was doubly aware of the truth of the words as she studied her reflection, the contrast and compliment of white and gold against her skin and hair. It took great effort not to cover her partially exposed bosom with her hands, to hug her arms over the snug bodice. She knew, however, the gown’s impression was powerful enough to do exactly what Elena said.
Dark eyes twinkled at her in the mirror. “It’s beneficial, at times, to be a woman. Even if our only power is in our sex.”
Isidora looked quickly away as a quick stab of pain lanced her heart. It should not be this way, she thought. On Alesia, it was not so. She wondered whether the God truly felt that women were unworthy of greatness, or if it was merely the influence of human prejudices holding reign on this land.
“You looked distressed, my lady,” Elena said softly. “What are you thinking of?”
She smoothed her expression and turned with a smile; she did not know it, but it was the same brave, false smile her mother had worn as she bled out her life. “I was thinking that you were right on both accounts. I really don’t want to wear this gown, and I understand why I must.”
Something flickered in Elena’s eyes, giving lie to her earlier guise of naiveté. When she spoke, it was softly, in a new tone altogether, “Never have I felt the Goddess as strongly as I do now, in your presence. Know that Istar is served here, and if you are in need, you must call for me, and I will bring her servants to you.”
Any reply Isidora might have made, once she’d recovered from shock, was unknown, for just then the door opened on Bellamont. His dark eyes, flecks of gold within catching the light, traveled upon her body like fire, searing where they touched.
When his gaze rose to hers, though, it was calmly detached. He glanced at Elena. “Well done,” he said. He looked dispassionately at Isidora. “Take down your hair and we’ll go.”
The door closed and she turned fast toward the windows, heart hammering in her chest. Filled with uncertainty and sudden doubt, she began pulling fretfully at the lacings on the bodice.
Dark hands covered her own, stilling her movements. She looked up at Elena, sharply aware that she was flushed and breathing raggedly. “You’re no common beauty,” she said kindly, “nor, I see, are you an untried maiden. But Bellamont is no common man. Before his exile, he was lover to Princess Serephina. He commands her heart to this day, and if you wish for her reception, you’d best distance yourself from him.”
“He is nothing to me,” she said determinedly.
Elena’s wise eyes narrowed, but she nodded. “Good, for the princess fights the Church for right to be crowned the first unchallenged queen of Tanalon. She needs the Goddess beside her to overcome the evils of men. You must help her.”
Suddenly it was all too much to take in, and Isidora stumbled forward to lean heavily on the wall. She reached to her chest for the comforting weight of her amulet, only to remember that it was safely stored with Finnéces.
She closed her eyes against waves of fear, grief, and longing. “I want no audience of monarchs,” she said breathlessly. “I want only to enter the Academe des Viana in peace, to have the fall of Alesia recorded so that the world will know of its passing.”
Behind her, she heard Elena’s breath hiss. “You speak of the Isle of Dusk?” she whispered.
Isidora turned slowly toward the woman, saw that her hands were clutched against her breasts, face pale and features contorted. Never had she imagined that there would be women here, in this foreign, male dominated land, who would grieve for loss of the sacred isle as she did. And then followed a blossoming hope that, despite renewed grief, there was strength to be drawn upon here, that might, in time, come to fill some of the void caused by Goddess’ absence.
High priestess of Istar once more, Isidora straightened and gave the woman the full attention of her compassionate, pained gaze. She nodded once, and Elena gave a strangled cry, sinking bonelessly to her knees. With no care for the priceless skirts of her gown, Isidora sank down beside her and lifted her face in her hands, pressing a kiss onto her forehead.
“For as long as I breathe, I carry Alesia’s memory within me,” she murmured. “As do you, dear woman, and those like you. When we are gone, our daughters will remember, and mayhap someday, all of the world will remember the Gardens of Almhain.”
There was movement near the door, and Finnéces bowed respectfully. “I have been sent to fetch you, Lady Fiannan.”
Elena’s fingers gripped her wrists, biting hard. Tearful eyes looked into hers. “I will send word of your coming to the city, my lady, so that you will have friends with you always.”
Isidora smiled weakly. “I’m becoming aware that friends here are hard to find. I would be most grateful for your aid.”
Elena nodded and visibly gathered her wits, standing and helping Isidora to rise. Bellamont’s voice rang out in the other room, inquiring as to the delay. Deftly, Elena unpinned the scarf from Isidora’s head and unbound her curls. Her eyes grew wide and misty at their golden abundance, but her hands stayed steady, separating strands and spreading the curls over her shoulders and down her back.
“There,” she said at last, smiling bravely. “There is not a man who breathes who would deny you this day.”
Isidora clasped the woman to her, moved to tears by the unexpected kinship. “Until we meet again, my the blessings of the Goddess be upon you.”
Elena bravely withheld a sob. “And upon you, my lady.”
*
Their progress on horseback to the dock caused a stir in the streets that rippled outward, to the borders of the river and across it by way of the barge just leaving. All around them people swarmed, faces turning toward them in open appraisal and speculation.
The first man who recognized Bellamont the Black was anonymous; still, they heard the effect of his proclamation as a near-audible shift in the crowd. The tone grew louder and more ominous as word spread like wildfire. Far in the distance, they heard a woman scream, and another cry out in explicit longing.
Isidora glanced at the man riding beside her, at his impassive, carven features, and could easily imagine his face inspiring both fear and lust depending on the merest tilt of his lips. She remembered the length of his body trapping hers in the moonlit courtyard, and shivered despite the warming afternoon sun.
Elazar had gone before them, and as they neared the quay they could see him beside the loading plank, standing above the crowd on stacked wooden crates. He was yelling at the people at his feet, one hand raised and waving Bellamont forward.
The press of people was daunting. Isidora was inexperienced with crowds of this nature, hundreds of faces becoming one desperate and ruthless visage. Her growing panic transferred to her horse, who whinnied and fought the bit. She looked helplessly at Bellamont and without even glancing at her, he snatched her reigns from her hands, drawing her horse closer so that her skirts fell about his booted calf.
“Almost there,” he said, though whether he spoke to her, himself, or the horse, she did not know.
A crew of darkly clad dockhands and off-duty sailors appeared like magic, their quick, lithe bodies surrounding the horses and carving a path for them to where Elazar waited. The dock-master was looking dolefully at the crowd, which was fast growing out of hand. More people were screaming and yelling, shoving one another to get by or to make more room for themselves.
“My tab is just about paid with this one, Bellamont,” growled Elazar. “I can alre
ady feel the justices breathing down my neck.”
Arturo was unperturbed, casting an indifferent eye over the sea of faces.
“Assassin des Viana!” cried a man. “He’s come home to pay last respects to the king!”
“Nay!” someone yelled. “He’s come for the princess! That’s why he was exiled in the first place!”
A woman threw her arms high, surging toward the horses. “Take me, brave Bellamont! Take me instead!”
Arturo’s eyes flashed dark, his hands tightening on the reigns. Isidora could feel the taut muscles of his leg through her skirts. Behind them, she glimpsed Diego smothering a grin with a gloved hand.
“Bellamont!” another cry came, but this one different in both intensity and volume. They all turned and saw that on the opposite side of the square, separated from their party by hundreds of people, were twelve mounted soldiers of the Church.
“Time to get onto the river, I’d say,” Elazar commented. He began issuing commands to the gathered sailors, who ran to lift the barricade and clear the way for the horses.
“Stop this instant, in the name of the Church!”
The invocation fell like a mighty hand on the crowd, halting the sailors and silencing everyone save children, who continued crying and complaining without care for the matters of adults.
Arturo closed his eyes for a moment and sat absolutely still. Then, a tremor moved through the leg that Isidora felt against hers. She dared not breathe for fear he would erupt, so tenuous seemed his control.
“No, brother,” Diego murmured, “not now.”
“There is no escape!” the soldier bellowed. “We wait for you across the river as well!”
In a movement too quick for most eyes to follow, Arturo stood in his saddle and faced the helmeted man. His voice was a silken roar as he challenged, “Will you cut down these innocent people to reach me, brave warrior of the God? Do you do Anshar’s will here, or do you risk your lives at the order of clerics, who even now grow fat on idleness and toast the ignorance of their followers?”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 5