“Blasphemy!” the soldier cried. The people caught before his horse cried in fear as the animal fought forward. One man sunk before the sharp hooves. The men behind pulled free their swords and slapped down their visors.
The children were screaming now.
Finnéces, in an action Isidora would later both bless and curse, pushed something into her fist just as she screamed, “No!” and flung her hand toward the soldiers.
Sunlight met the amulet of the Gods and flashed lightening-bright across the quay. The masses cried out in awe and fear, covering their eyes and cowering together. The crystal disc burned like fire in her hand but she welcomed the pain as its godly light shone over the people, both corrupt and innocent of heart.
“You will not shed blood here today,” she commanded, inflecting just the tone she imagined her mother would use, were she here. “I have walked across the bones of my people to reach Vianalon, and Bellamont is my chosen guide through its great gates. I am the Lady of the Isle of Dusk, and as a monarch visiting the ruling House of Tanalon, I demand safe passage for myself and my companions.”
She closed her fingers about the amulet, smothering its light. All was silent; even the cries of infants had stilled. She could hear the gentle lapping of water against the shore, distant voices from streets away, the creak of the planks beneath her horse’s feet.
“And on whose authority do you make this claim of legitimacy?”
The cultured voice came from among the soldiers; horses shifted to allow another rider into view. He wore nondescript robes, a hood shading his features. On his chest hung a wide silver medallion, and even from a distance she could she its resemblance to her own.
“A cleric,” Diego whispered.
Isidora nodded at the man. “Cleric of Anshar, my authority comes from my word and the medallion I carry, which has been guarded by my people since the blooming of the Gardens of Almhain and the birth of the God.”
The bearded mouth, visible beneath the hood, tightened into a frown. Isidora allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Her careful words ensured that the cleric would not dare question her faith at risk of blaspheming himself.
“Well, cleric?” Elazar asked casually. “Shall I allow them aboard or not?”
The cleric bared his teeth, but nodded sharply. “They may enter the city. On my word, their progress will not be delayed.” The words were sour with bitterness, and caused movement and mutterings among the soldiers. He growled at them in a low voice and they feel silent.
Heady with power and unable to resist, Isidora called, “As a lowly servant of divinity myself, may I ask, cleric, for a blessing?”
The hooded man’s head snapped toward her, lips pinched white. “Of course, my lady,” he said tightly. “Blessings of Anshar upon you.”
She nodded, smiling. “And upon you, servant of the God.”
Chapter Six
Arturo angled his jaw toward the rosy, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows and set a razor against his face, pulling the blade down his skin with relish. Diego, bathed and newly shaved himself, lounged on a settee in the bedchamber, one of several in the sumptuous palace apartments that had been allotted for their use.
“I still say it was brilliant,” his partner said, lifting a sparkling crystal goblet to his lips. He moved the rich, fragrant wine on his tongue and swallowed with a sigh of pleasure. “You’re just sore that we didn’t get to ride balls out for the Church and make a public scene before the God’s Holy House.”
Arturo grunted and rinsed the razor in the basin before him, then lifted it to the other side of his face. Oblivious to the reticence of his audience, Diego continued, “A full regiment of church soldiers, blushing and stammering, leading us directly from the city gates to the entrance of the palace. It was definitely a high point of my life.”
“They weren’t blushing for us,” he grumbled.
Diego chuckled. “Come now, brother, you have to admit she was wondrous. When she was chastising those soldiers across the river I could swear she’d been taking lessons from my mother.”
Arturo snorted. “Your mother never chastised you in your life, you idiot.”
Diego only laughed harder. “Still, if she did, I can believe that would be the sound of it. As it was, I still felt like pissing in my pants like a snot-nosed youth.”
Arturo set the razor on the lip of the basin and wiped his smooth cheeks with a towel. “She has put herself into immediate danger by making a public enemy of the Church,” he said darkly. “That was Cleric Rinaldo she made a fool of today, and unless everything has changed in this blasted city, he still has the ear of the High Cleric himself.”
Diego swallowed wrong and took air in a hacking cough. Arturo pounded helpfully on his back while neatly taking possession of the goblet and finishing off its contents.
“Thanks,” his partner snapped, grabbing the empty glass and reaching for the decanter.
Arturo nodded distractedly and glanced at the door, beyond which was a lavish antechamber connecting to a short hallway and two more bedrooms, one for Isidora, the other for her companions.
“Keep one eye open while you sleep tonight,” he said, looking down at his scowling partner. “I’ll be back before morning.”
Diego’s gaze narrowed, but whatever thoughts he had were kept private. He nodded once and tossed his head toward the door. “Get thee gone, then,” he said lightly.
Arturo took the long, roundabout route to the princess’ quarters, avoiding commonly used passages. Fine rugs silencing his footsteps and soft candlelight emanating from elaborate wall sconces, he took the time to reacquaint himself with the ancient, opulent feel of the palace around him. Invaluable stained glass windows blazed in the last of the day’s light. He remembered his first glimpse of their grandeur, ten years before, and wished he could feel what he’d felt then, an innocent’s response to beautiful things.
There was one beautiful thing Vianalon’s palace housed, however, that had never failed to rouse him.
The customary positions of guards on either side of her door were vacant. He tried the golden handle and found it unlocked, pushed the door slowly open. The richly appointed and utterly sterile antechamber where she received guests of state was vacant as well. He moved across it to place his hand on another door, cracked just enough for him to glimpse a shadowed interior.
“Come in, Bellamont.”
He entered and closed the door behind him, locking it. She was standing before the massive hearth, dark hair haloed by flames, figure encased in an ermine-trimmed robe.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked.
He felt rather than saw her smile. “By the whisper of your presence, your lack of sound. You forget that the Dunak assassins tutored me too, to hear the very noise you don’t create.”
“What, then, would you have done, had I been an assassin?”
Her hand moved and the glint of a knife appeared as she set the instrument on the mantle behind her. The movements of her body were fluid and controlled, so full of newly learned grace that suddenly he felt he did not know this woman at all.
“Have I changed so much?” she asked softly.
“Yes, but only in ways that become your station.”
Serephina laughed, head bowing, long, silky hair falling forward. “Still as lacking in flattery as you are in sound,” she said chidingly. There was a pause, then, “Six years yields great changes in anyone. And you, Arturo? Have you changed?”
“Come here, Serephina, and decide for yourself.”
Some things, such as those primal inclinations between man and woman who desire each other, do not change in time. They made love in the heat and shadows before the hearth, unspeaking. When she cried out her release, he sank himself into her a final time and exhaled a shaking breath.
She slept for a time, he laying beside her, looking d
own upon her face. The last of her youth was gone, the years having melted her features into a deceptively fragile beauty. She tasted the same, smelled the same. Her olive skin still felt like silk under his fingers, her eyes a familiar, captivating hazel.
And yet she was not the same.
She stirred and woke, reaching for him. This time there was a hunger not present before, an unspoken admittance in each kiss and touch that despite them, or in spite of them, time had passed and changed the world. In the end she clung to him, weeping silently as he wished for words to comfort her.
He said nothing, merely offered himself, and in time she grew strong again, accepting his head upon her soft breast, his body inside hers.
*
Arturo left the princess before dawn, having carried her to the canopied bed and lain a gentle kiss upon her lips. Despite lack of sleep, he was restless. The notion of returning to his chambers was unappealing, but when the palace staff began to waken, starting the kitchen fires and moving sleepily about the corridors, he made his way back to the guest wing.
The central sitting room was empty and dark, but he could hear Diego snoring from where he sat, head on his chest, on a chair beside the door. He touched his partner’s shoulder and he came awake with a start, reaching for his sword.
“Easy, man,” he murmured. “Get to bed now.”
Diego mumbled something about golden haired ghosts as he stumbled toward his room. When his snoring took up again a minute later, Arturo looked at the shadow sitting rigidly by the window.
Something constricted within him, rising to his tongue with a sour taste. He recognized the sensation as one he’d carried for many years, though he wondered at it now. This guilt was unreasonable.
“Why are you not abed, my lady?” he asked.
She exhaled softly. “I was watching the sky.”
He crossed the room to stand behind her chair; she inhaled sharply through her nose and he cursed himself silently for standing too close. She said nothing, though, merely turned her eyes to the still-dark window.
“I wonder how many people have noticed its absence?” she murmured.
He gazed into the moonless sky, what stars there were obscured by the city’s ever-present glow. “More than you would think, perhaps.”
“And not nearly as many as I would hope,” she finished.
He looked down on the crown of her head, the thick auburn and gold curls muted by darkness. The scent of her rose to his nostrils and he inhaled unconsciously, taking her in.
Her low voice threaded into the darkness, the silence, so that it took several moments for her words to register. “What will you do, Bellamont, when Tanalon falls into civil war again, Holy Church and its army against the common people? Will you ride against the God?”
“I will ride against the corrupt, whoever they might be.”
She lifted her head, turning to look up at him. “For what greater purpose? To see a queen installed in Tanalon? To rule at her side?” Before he could respond, she continued, “Or do you wield your sword, your knives and your fists because you simply know no other way? If that is the case, what makes you different from those you fight? Do not these corrupt clergy want exactly the same thing that you do, that Rodrigo Vasquez wants?”
He struggled to keep his voice low as he replied, “You ask me these questions and do not pause for answers, my lady, so I will ask some of you in return. Once you have found your scribe, once the fall of Alesia is recorded and its scroll locked away to rot in the Vault de Viana, what will you do? It seems to me that your Goddess might be pleased at the fall of the Church.”
“The Goddess is not pleased by bloodshed,” she said with quiet passion. “In Almhain both God and Goddess are honored with equal regard. I serve Istar, but in service to her I honor Anshar as well.”
“Then you are naïve beyond words,” he said, restraint snapping. “The Gods do not walk among men these days, priestess, or did you not notice? That little trick with the crystal today was impressive, but hardly indicative of divine intervention.”
She stood abruptly, spinning to face him. “It was no trick,” she hissed. “I have felt the Goddess’ touch singing through my blood. I have known the love of the God. Do not presume that I respect you enough to submit to your childish questionings of faith.”
He gaped at her. “Who is childish, my lady? You actually think the Gods give a damn about you, that you are specially blessed? I don’t know what life was like in the fairytale world you came from, but on this peninsula we have not known a lasting peace in four generations. We must decide for ourselves what is right and what is wrong, not let puffed-up, deluded kings and servants of the Gods like you dictate our lives.”
In the silence their heavy breaths mingled, their wills locked together in the space between them.
“I want no crown,” he said in a fierce whisper. “I want no war. I am here only because of you. You brought me back, and I came believing I would live only to see you into the Academe before I was arrested for treason and executed.”
“What?” she whispered hollowly.
It was too late to halt the words on his tongue; they brimmed like water in a too-full cup, and escaped over the edge. “All I have wanted for six years, traveling aimlessly around this accursed peninsula, was to find the courage to brave the seas and set foot upon Alesia,” he breathed. “To live out my days far from the intrigues and inequities of this place. All I dreamed of was discovered gone the moment I met you, and so I am here that the vestiges of my dream may be remembered.”
“I didn’t know,” she said, lifting a hand to her mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He swallowed; the guilt was gone, and in its place was pure bafflement. “Why would I tell you things I have spoken of to no living soul?” he asked, both of her and himself.
She had no answer and he expected none, for he had none himself. He gripped the back of the chair between them, looking out onto the city. “I have killed countless men, Lady Fiannan, on distant battlefields with my sword, in their beds with silent knives, smiling into their faces as they drank from a poisoned cup. All for the noble king who promised greatness beyond measure to a street-tried boy of eighteen. I fell for the lies, believed for so long that what I did was for some greater good.”
He looked at Isidora, reached impulsively forward to touch a soft curl of her hair. She jerked at his touch and he let his hand fall, sighing. “What this life has shown me without doubt is that the will of the Gods is unknown, and the world of men is a breathing, vile thing. In the end it is not who is purest of heart or noblest of cause who controls the field, but he who sheds the most blood. I do not believe anymore, my lady, in anything.”
She made a soft noise, quickly stifled, and it took him some moments to realize that she was weeping. Twice in one night, he thought, I have made strong women weep.
Her body stiffened when he placed his arms carefully around her, but she did not move to disengage him. Grateful for her small concession, he held her as tightly as he dared, every quiver of her body echoing pain through his own.
“I have hurt you again,” he said into her hair. “You who feel no pain.”
She spoke into his shoulder, “I am sad for you, not because of you.”
“It is the same, I think,” he said, and when she began to pull away he tucked her closer, stroking the curls down her back. Eventually she quieted, and though never once did she move to embrace him in return, the tension between them retreated and she leaned softly against him.
He whispered her name when they parted. She smiled slightly in the predawn light, her eyes luminous and full of sorrow, and took his face in her hands, drawing it down to place a kiss upon his brow.
“Goddess be with you, Arturo de Galván,” she said, and was gone.
Chapter Seven
The festival which commenced the following day throughout
the many streets and plazas of the city resulted in the virtual imprisonment of inhabitants of the palace. Guards did double shifts on the battlements and before the grand, stylistic golden gates, keeping the revelry at a respectable distance from the house wherein the ruling monarch of Tanalon lay on his deathbed.
On most years, those nobles in residence at the palace, and at times even the king and princess themselves, would make appearances on the streets, disguised or undisguised as their mood and that of the crowd allowed. This year, however, all varied personages of authority, including justices, ambassadors, and visiting dukes and barons stayed cloistered indoors in deference to their ailing king.
Thus, when she would have much rather been braving the chaos of the city to petition for entrance to the Academe des Viana, Isidora Fiannan stood amidst tens of bolts of colored fabrics while about her swarmed three anxious seamstresses. It was this one, no that one, no both of them together, and had been for the last two hours. Saving her, barely, from pulling her hair out by the roots was Diego, who stood in the corner of the room scowling and making biting comments as to the unbearable frivolity of women’s costumes.
There was some part of her, she had to admit, that was flattered by the continuous praise of the seamstresses, and hoped dearly that they were as skilled with needles as they were with words. For this evening she was dining with the princess and select guests, the meticulously penned invitation having arrived by courier just after breakfast, its delicate phrasing implying no possibility of polite refusal.
The note had smelled lightly of gardenias, the same sweet and heady scent that had been beneath her nose as she’d allowed Bellamont to embrace her in the darkness.
“I think we’ve patterned the last gown,” the head seamstress proclaimed with a pleased sigh.
The Gardens of Almhain Page 6