It was the second figure that Finnéces addressed, with some surprise, “What did you feel?”
Diego shook himself as though coming out of a trance. The white of his eyes were clear. “Imagine a shiver down your spine, only a hundred times enhanced. Only twice before have I felt it.”
“When?”
“In the desert, when that canteen overflowed.” He swallowed, muscles of his throat working visibly. “And when I was a young boy, and my mother took me for the first time to witness services at the God’s Holiest Church in Vianalon.”
Finnéces, last living Alesian devotee of the God, nodded to himself and retired to his room, where he sat through the night in prayer.
Chapter Eight
The princess herself welcomed them into the softly lit dining room. She emerged from the stately wooden doors flanked by two large guards, their size and glittering weaponry only enhancing her small loveliness, her born and bred regal bearing. She was gowned in white, the fabric of her bodice thick with tiny diamonds and lace, its cream color setting off the burnished brown of her skin and dark, long-lashed eyes.
She was easily the most beautiful woman Isidora had ever seen, with delicate features and a slight figure that was lushly curved. It was a purely selfish observation to note that the princess was opposite in all ways to herself. But instead of womanly envy, she felt only pity for this creature, surrounded by weapons, her beauty and mind shadowed by a dying king and scheming Church.
Isidora bent her knee in what she hoped was a fair representation of a curtsy. When she lifted her head, the princess was looking at her, dark eyes in an absorptive state, taking her in as one might facts on a page. “Be welcome to Vianalon, Lady Fiannan, on behalf of House Caville,” she said, voice soft and clear. “Though I wish less notable circumstances had brought you here.”
Isidora felt a sharp touch of pain in her heart and bowed her head, wondering how many years it would be before such words did not affect her so. “As do I, your highness,” she replied.
Silence pulled her head up to see Serephina looking at Bellamont. There was a mix of longing and sadness not quite concealed in her eyes. “Please,” she addressed them both, gesturing behind her. “Come in.”
The chamber befitted a royal dining party. Glass goblets and silver utensils winked in the candlelight. Prisms danced along the white tablecloth, refracting from tiny mirrors suspended within the chandelier overhead. The walls were dark, glistening wood, decorated in intervals by portraits of the royal family.
There was one painting in particular that demanded attention, for it was largest and dominated the far wall. In it, the king and deceased queen sat on the rim of a garden fountain, holding in their laps two children. A russet-haired boy of about three and an adolescent Serephina.
The princess noted her attention and said calmly, “My brother, Felipe. He died of the wasting sickness not four months after that was painted.”
“I’m sorry,” Isidora said softly.
Serephina nodded and swept toward the table, the train of her gown whispering over the carpeted floor. Four men had risen from their seats and faced the newcomers pending introduction. Now they nodded in turn as they were named.
“Virgilio, Adept Scholar and Head of the Academe des Viana,” Serephina said, motioning to a short, spare man with spectacles perched on a long nose, ink-stained hands and wild dark hair.
There was a flutter of excitement in Isidora’s breast as she nodded to him, risked a glance at Bellamont to see whether he had arranged this. His expression of haughty boredom, however, did not alter.
“Ignacio Benefice, my Minister of War.”
He looked like his title sounded, a rigidly composed man of daunting proportion. Though he wore no weapons and looked more gentleman than soldier, his hands were wide and calloused, his shoulders rippling with muscle.
“Juan Santiago, Borgetzan ambassador.”
The man might have been handsome, were it not that his face was a touch too narrow, his deep-set eyes full of secrets. Isidora felt a warning heat along her skin and Bellamont tensed beside her. She dared not look at him again, though she wished badly to see whether he responded to her tremor or simply to sight of the man at Serephina’s table.
“Lastly,” the princess continued, “Hadrian Visconte.” She paused for the briefest moment before adding, “A cleric of the God.”
Isidora met the man’s gaze, and stood stunned as a telltale shiver coursed along her arms. A lie had been told, carefully hidden in partial truth. A cleric he was, but no longer a son of the Church. He wore all black, as Bellamont did, and in truth, he was a rival in masculinity, if older than Bellamont by at least a decade. Cropped black hair curled around his head and his eyes were a pale, unnerving hazel. His face was as stern as Bellamont’s was sensuous, and he exuded quiet dignity. Beneath the calm exterior, though, was a man divided by loyalties. It took no extra sense to name them as Country and God.
Isidora and Bellamont were seated by silent servants, she between the Borgetzan ambassador and the Minister of War while he had a blatant place of honor, beside the princess at the head of the table, with Cleric Visconte and Virgilio on his left.
She hardly tasted the food, though it was exquisitely presented and likely very palatable. Nor could she recall later the responses she gave to the polite inquiries of her dinner partners, only that without much effort on her part, she was fulfilling the role of an overawed and somewhat dull-witted woman.
Her Touched state ruled her senses, washing her with the emotions of the people around her. Princess Serephina projected most loudly, nearly all of her attention centered on Bellamont. Longing was there still, and a sadness born of resignation.
The assassin himself was harder to read, though it seemed to Isidora that while he spoke with the princess, his attentions were elsewhere, on the strange members of this gathering, the opinions they shared over venison and fine wine, and more importantly, perhaps, those they did not.
Subdued menace, and something else she could not name, battered her from her right, where Juan Santiago sat. She knew next to nothing of the political relationship between Borgetza and Tanalon, only that the two countries shared a border. With the king dying and an untried, unmarried princess fighting for right to the throne, it was logical to assume that Borgetza would send an ambassador to Vianalon, if only to report back on affairs in their neighboring country.
Even so, there was a quality of Juan Santiago that Isidora found deeply unsettling. He was impeccably polite, intelligent in conversation with the men around her. And yet his eyes shifted too often to Bellamont and the princess, and when they did, the Touch slithered dangerously along her spine.
She was fighting the urge to squirm in her chair when it became apparent that the room was silent. Looking up, she found that all attentions were focused upon her.
“I’m sorry?” she said weakly.
Virgilio the Scholar adjusted his spectacles. “Bellamont was just telling us about finding you, near death, in the Wasteland. Tell us if you would, Lady Fiannan, of your journey to Calabria.”
A small sailboat, never meant to leave peaceful coves, being tossed like a toy over dark ocean swells the size of mountains. Her screams mixing with Edan’s keening and Finnéces’ yells of fury and determination as he fought to keep them afloat. The only light coming from Alesia afire, fading into distance as winds and tides carried the craft across the open seas.
Alesia afire, its people slaughtered as they ran from burning homes. The forests and great hill of Almhain, atop which resided Sanctuary, set to the torch. The high keening of the priestesses trapped in their flaming cage, their voices sounding like ghostly winds through the roar of the fire.
She swallowed, blinked hard to clear the memory.
“Perhaps this hour is not the best for such a story, that will clearly bring torment to its teller. Better that it should be
told in daylight, with the God’s light clearing away the darkest of horrors.”
Isidora looked at Hadrian Visconte, who watched her with eerie comprehension. Despite the strange knowing in his eyes, she managed a grateful smile in his direction.
“Forgive my presumption,” Virgilio said, though from the sour expression on his face it was clear he would have liked to hear the story regardless of her pain.
“My lady,” said the Borgetzan, voice sticky with false concern, “you’re hands are shaking.”
Before she could stop him, he reached for her hand and took it against his own, her palm flat against his skin.
“No!” she cried, and heard Bellamont’s voice echo hers.
The Borgetzan screamed, eyes rolling wildly. With a bone-cracking convulsion he flew backward, knocking over his chair. Her hand still sealed to his, Isidora fell with him but immediately scrambled to her feet and with all her strength wrenched her hand from his.
Unconscious, convulsing, still the man was screaming. Small, terrified screams like that of a child confronted by the truth of all his nightmares.
The room erupted in chaos. The Minister of War had produced a wicked looking knife from somewhere on his person and was standing, chair fallen backward, eyes darting between the Borgetzan and Isidora and clearly not sure whom he should attack or defend. The princess’ voice was raised as she ordered her servants to fetch a physician, while Virgilio peered down at the afflicted man in impersonal observation.
Someone had hold of her hands, and Isidora tried ineffectually to pull away. “Be still, my lady,” Hadrian Visconte whispered fiercely. She looked down and saw that he was tugging her fingers into gloves. With deft movements he yanked the kidskin up her wrists, all the while guiding her away from the fallen man, toward a quiet corner of the room.
She stood stock-still against the shadowed wall. Bellamont was crouched beside the ambassador. She stared at him, the calm and contained reality of him, until he looked up at her and shook his head once.
“Oh Goddess,” she whispered, covering her face with her gloved hands as if she would wipe away the memory of the Borgetzan’s touch. She had not been prepared for the contact, and thus the darkness in his mind had overwhelmed her, made her incapable of deciphering its contents. Still, the slithery wrongness of him stayed in her senses, making her feel unclean.
“First the brandishing of the amulet of the God—or Gods, I should say—and now this,” Hadrian said tonelessly. “My lady, if your wish is to attract the attentions of every cleric and king on the peninsula, you are succeeding magnificently.”
Before she could summon wits enough to respond, the Scholar Virgilio joined them. His eyes were aglow with academic interest. “Strangest assassination attempt I’ve ever seen,” he commented, gaze boring into hers. “Do you care to explain yourself, my lady?”
She stared at him in astonishment. “Assassination?” she whispered, shaking her head helplessly. “No, no.”
“What but poison could cause a man to have such instantaneous agony?” he inquired loudly, drawing attentions from the guards near the door, and the Minister of War who stood with them. Ignacio Benefice regarded her as if he wished to pick apart her head and uncover the gross plots within it, preferably while she was chained in a dark room.
Her palms grew moist with fear as she was reminded at once of her precarious state in Tanalon, that of a visiting ruler from an island very few people knew existed, with only her word and foreign coloring to give weight to her claim.
The Borgetzan was still wailing, though more softly now as his breath waned. He was surrounded by panicking voices and fluttering palace servants. A blue robed man of unassuming features was admitted to the room and with easy authority cleared a space beside the patient to begin administering the tools of his trade.
“Lady Fiannan?” Virgilio pressed mercilessly. “We await your reply.”
Head swimming, Isidora closed her eyes. Goddess and God, help me.
A strong arm closed around her shoulders just as she thought her knees would buckle. A familiar heat cocooned her, salving the tremors of her panic. Bellamont addressed the Scholar over her head, voice dripping with venom, “It is the opinion of the king’s physician, Virgilio, that our friend the Borgetzan ambassador is a sufferer of a rare disease not unknown to the Academe. You must be familiar with it yourself, for it is known that one of your own Scholars suffers as well from periodic attacks of convulsions and dementia.”
“Yes, yes, well—” Virgilio blustered.
“I suggest you remember who it is that you’ve accused so boldly of attempted murder, in the presence of your crown princess no less,” he continued icily. “Lady Fiannan has no motive for harming an ambassador to this court.”
Isidora opened her eyes to see Princess Serephina standing some feet away, expression regally cold as she regarded the Head of the Academe. “Virgilio,” she said stonily. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
The Scholar flushed red all the way to his receding hairline. “Your highness,” he said, bowing low. “I am truly sorry for my presumption, I merely—”
“It is not me that you should be apologizing to,” the princess retorted.
Shaking with humiliation and fury, Virgilio turned hateful eyes on Isidora. She moved instinctively closer to Bellamont. “My Lady Fiannan,” the Scholar said tensely. “Do accept my humblest apologies for causing you undue distress.”
She nodded, a mere jerk of her head, and the Scholar bowed once more to the princess before storming from the room.
“I would like to retire, if that is possible,” Isidora said breathlessly.
The princess nodded. “Of course,” she said graciously. “Perhaps tomorrow, if you’re feeling well, you might care to join me in the gardens for my afternoon walk.”
“I would be honored,” she breathed.
“Good night to you, my lady,” Hadrian Visconte said with a nod.
Isidora’s blue eyes rested briefly on his face, but reflected only numbed comprehension. She looked up at Bellamont, who made haste to escort her from the room. So subtle was Bellamont’s influence that as they departed, only Hadrian knew that Tanalon’s most infamous, coldhearted courtier was supporting all but a little of Lady Fiannan’s weight.
The doors closed and Hadrian breathed a sigh of relief. The Lady Fiannan had unnerved him from the moment she’d entered the room. Rebel of the Church he was, both in manner and opinion, but still he served the God. And he’d felt Anshar’s presence tonight, radiating from the young and lovely foreign woman, as well as a darker, cooler force that he feared to name.
He felt the princess’ gaze upon him, and when he turned his head she nodded imperiously. Biting his tongue on his own desire to retire for the evening, he followed her across the room and through a nondescript service entrance at the back of the chamber. She led him silently along dimly lit corridors until they reached a shadowed end.
There, she removed a key from her person and fit it to the lock of a heavy, iron-bracketed door. The wood creaked as she pushed it open and he followed her through, stepping aside as she locked them within.
Key still in hand, she turned and said without preamble, “What was that?”
Hadrian undid the top button of his blouse and took one of the two cushioned chairs before the glowing fireplace. “The God,” he grunted.
She made a noise, half of interest, half of skepticism, as she removed two snifters and a beaker of brandy from a side cabinet. As she handed him a glass, he couldn’t help but wish she’d poured a full measure, instead of the appropriate splash.
Serephina sat opposite him, glass resting idly on her knee. She stared into the fire for a long moment. “Tell me, my friend,” she said with deceptive lightness, “why did you give her your gloves?”
The glass that was halfway to his lips stalled and lowered. Hadrian sighed deeply,
relaxing into his chair. “Do you know why I was banished from the Church?” he asked.
She nodded. “You were accused of heresy.”
“Yes, but do you know what that heresy was?”
Serephina frowned. “I was still a child when you were sent away,” she replied.
It was the politic response of a princess unused to admitting ignorance. Hadrian smiled slightly but did not press the point, instead supplying, “In the final three years of my service to the Church, I was an emissary to the common people. Namely those communities in Tanalon too poor or isolated for the Church to bother building chapels or supplying clerics. It was my duty to offer the teachings of the Church to these faith-starved souls.”
“Is this going to become a parable?” she asked petulantly.
He smiled fondly at his former pupil. “I’ll make it brief,” he promised. “In those three years of travel, I learned one magnificent truth. The common people of Tanalon do not need the dogma of the Church to live near to the God.”
“Heresy indeed,” she murmured.
He leaned forward in his chair, capturing her wary gaze. “There is power among the peasants, a power to destroy the Church.”
Serephina’s dark eyes flashed with interest. “What power?”
Hadrian sat back, suddenly tired, and closed his eyes only to envision a face, crowned with golden hair. He had known that gloves would ease the Lady Fiannan’s state of distress because he had seen the technique used before, in a small village on the coast of the North Sea.
There, they had called the afflicted man a mystic, touched by the God.
“Hadrian, tell me,” demanded the princess.
He opened his eyes. “The old ways have surfaced again,” he said. “In fact, they have been here all along.”
“Mystics,” she gasped.
“Yes, your highness,” he said wryly. “It seems your father did not manage to burn them all.”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 8