The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  When she looked up at him, he could only stare back, defenseless again.

  “Is this blood?” she asked, quite calmly.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Of how many?”

  “Isidora,” Diego began, “they would have killed him. He was defending himself, and us.”

  “How many?” she repeated.

  Arturo closed his eyes. “Seventeen.”

  When the sharp clicks of her boots on the ground faded into the distance, he opened his eyes in the darkness. “She doesn’t understand, brother,” Diego murmured. “Her family, her people…”

  “I know,” he sighed.

  After a moment, Diego asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “The king was definitely poisoned, but I didn’t find any trace of the toxin. I did, however, have a spontaneous conversation with the High Cleric.” He waited several moments for his partner to recover from a coughing fit. “He is just as insane as I remembered him to be, and still wants me dead. Only perhaps more so now, as he’s missing an ear.”

  “Dear God, Almighty Anshar, save my sinning soul, bless me in this unholy hour—”

  “Diego,” he said shortly, cutting off his mumblings. “Why was Isidora running in the wrong direction?”

  “When she discovered you weren’t with us, she was convinced that you had followed even though I told her you had not. In fact, I’m curious, how did you know where we would be?”

  He forced words past the strange, sudden lightness in his chest. “There is a trapdoor behind the headboard of the royal bed. The passageway connects to this one about fifty yards back. When I was younger, the king was fond of summoning me for lessons in the middle of the night, and insisted that I use the secret entrance. Later, he had the bed shoved against it to prevent me from entering. It’s a damned heavy bed.”

  Diego chuckled, clapping his shoulder. “I’m glad you made it out, brother.”

  “As am I,” he replied, gripping his partner’s hand.

  The lamp’s light appeared around the bend before them. “It’s good to see you alive, Bellamont,” Hadrian said. “But we still haven’t much time.”

  They followed the cleric to the door that now stood open, beckoning entrance with soft, warm light. The Alesians had already passed through; their voices could be heard from within the chamber. Diego walked after them but Hadrian paused on the threshold, glancing back at Arturo, who stood rigidly outside the reach of light.

  “There is nothing to fear,” said the cleric softly.

  Arturo focused on Hadrian’s face with effort. “Why don’t you hate me?” he asked, surprising himself as the words left his mouth.

  “Because he does not hate you,” he replied candidly. “I did hate you, once, but if my father can forgive…” He shrugged. “I still don’t know why you did it, only now I understand that the reason must have been a good one.”

  “Armando was going to expose my identity,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “and name me a traitor to the crown. My family would have been executed.”

  Hadrian was silent; finally, he nodded. “I expected as much.”

  In a rush of breath, Arturo said, “I never saw the missive, never asked for proof. He could have been bluffing.”

  The cleric narrowed his gaze. “I do not know of any time, in his long reign, that Armando bluffed. Do you, Bellamont?”

  From within the chamber rose laughter, Isidora’s musical voice joined by a lower one, so familiar to Arturo that his breath hitched. Eyes stinging, Hadrian’s question forgotten, he walked forward, drawn by invisible strings of longing toward that low, gentle sound. His hungry gaze fixed immediately on the gray-headed man seated before a crackling fire, hands folded over the blanket on his lap. Isidora was kneeling at the Scholar’s feet, her hands atop his as she smiled up at him.

  “Lucero.” The name came out as a strangled gasp as the pain of the past flooded through his senses. Isidora stood and stepped away from the chair, allowing him to walk around, to look down on the face he’d thought never to glimpse again.

  The strength flowed out of his limbs and he dropped to his knees before the Scholar.

  Lucero’s nostrils flared, brows arching indignantly over the strip of white cloth covering his eyes. “You stink of blood and sweat, my boy,” he said. “Have you been playing with knives again?”

  Arturo knew his laughter held the edge of hysteria as he reached for Lucero’s broken hands. He held them with infinite care, stroking the scarred skin, the protrusions where bones had healed wrongly. Dimly, he was aware that Hadrian had led the others from the room.

  “I was told you did not speak,” he murmured.

  “For a long while, I didn’t,” Lucero replied. “I was afraid of what I might say. My heart was full of bitterness, Arturo, my thoughts muddled and vile. Then I came to realize the gift you’d given me, through love. You spared my tongue and my life, and I see clearly now, as I never did before.”

  “You cannot mean it,” Arturo whispered, resting his forehead against Lucero’s knee. “I should have fought, disobeyed. I could have stopped, but didn’t. I broke your beautiful hands. I cut out your eyes, which had only looked kindly upon me. I cannot forgive myself that, ever.”

  A gnarled hand came to rest on his head, fingers stiff and unmoving as they stroked the bloodstained curls. “You committed an atrocity to prevent another, greater one. Would you forgive yourself if you had not acted, and instead had the deaths of your family on your hands? Your parents, your young nieces and nephews?”

  Arturo looked up through a haze of tears. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “I told you, I see clearly now,” he replied in a gently chiding tone. “There could have been no other bargaining piece.”

  The force of Arturo’s tears finally pushed past his throat in great gasping sobs. Lucero resumed drawing his hand slowly across the dark head in his lap. Isidora, who had not actually left the room, stood silently in the shadows of a far wall listening to the Scholar give wordless comfort to the man who had maimed him. And though Lucero had no eyes with which to see her, he had felt her shining presence, and so turned his head, smiling softly for her benefit. He nodded once, an uncanny gesture that made her wonder if he could, in fact, hear the slow passage of tears on her face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After Arturo’s grief was spent he slept for a while, head cradled in Lucero’s lap, his legs sprawled toward the warmth of the hearth. He awoke, stirring with a groan, to the sound of voices. On the other side of the wide, underground chamber, Hadrian and Diego were bent over a table, examining an unrolled parchment.

  “Awake, my boy?” Lucero murmured.

  Arturo lifted his head, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His hip ached from bearing his weight against the stone floor. “Is the day gone?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Hard to tell, isn’t it, with no sunlight to gauge?” mused the Scholar, turning his head toward the woman who occupied the chair beside his.

  Isidora looked down at Arturo, her expression unreadable. “You slept only an hour or so,” she said. “Hadrian and Diego are discussing possible routes of escape from the city. Serephina is here, meeting with her Minister of War in one of the study chambers.” She leaned forward, eyes coming alight. “The Vault is incredible, Arturo. There is such a wealth of history here, dating back centuries before Tanalon’s founding. Have you toured it before?”

  He nodded, glancing at Lucero. “Years ago,” he replied.

  The Scholar cleared his throat. “Now that you’re awake, let’s discuss how you’re going to take back the city.”

  Arturo stared doubtfully at Lucero’s serene features. “The army of the Church is the finest in the peninsula,” he said slowly. “It would take years to gather a force capable of usurping them. Not to mention the fact that we would be laying siege to a ci
ty that is home to several hundred thousand innocent people.”

  Lucero did not respond, hearing what Arturo could see: a man and woman presently entering the room. Serephina was regally composed, her hair styled to perfection, her gown a stunning confection of rose silk and chiffon. Ignacio Benefice hovered behind the princess, deceptively unthreatening despite smears of blood on his neck and a stained bandage around his left bicep.

  Arturo gained his feet, wincing as his muscles protested. He bowed stiffly to Serephina and when he rose, she was regarding him through narrowed, glittering black eyes. Never one for dissembling, she said, “I have heard you believe the king did not die of the wasting sickness, as my brother did.” Her fingers trembled just slightly as she accept a glass of water from Ignacio. When she looked at him again her jaw was clenched tight. The glint in her eyes was greater now, reminding him vividly of her father famous stare.

  Everyone in the room was silent, Hadrian and Diego having turned from their map to gaze between the princess and him. Finnéces and Edan looked up from where they sat together on stools near the hearth.

  For a moment Arturo considered a fantasy being elsewhere, then asked softly, “Who examined your brother’s body upon death?”

  “The cleric who administered last confessional,” Serephina replied stiffly.

  “Luther Viccole,” Lucero offered.

  The princess nodded. “As Felipe was the crown prince, the High Cleric attended to his final rites.”

  Arturo drew a breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “Your father was poisoned,” he said. “It is not certain that Felipe met the same end. He might have, indeed, fallen prey to the wasting sickness.”

  Serephina’s eyes lowered; her shoulders trembled slightly before squaring again. “I think it more likely that the natural heir to my father’s throne was disposed of, in much the same way as my mother and father were.”

  “Your mother died of grief,” Ignacio interjected gruffly.

  Serephina’s eyes flashed at the Minister. “My mother was too vain to die of a broken heart,” she retorted, “and much too cowardly to take poison of her own volition.”

  For some minutes, the only sound was the muted crackling of the fire.

  Then Lucero’s soft tenor broke the silence, “It is important to reevaluate the past in the light of the present; however, I think our main concern should be the future. Lifetimes ago, Cleric Viccole and I were boyhood friends. I have followed with interest his rise through the hierarchy of the Church. He would see every last soul in Tanalon skinned and hung if it meant he would be crowned king.” The blind gaze turned, unerringly finding Arturo. “What are we going to do to stop him?”

  “But a cleric cannot be king,” Diego stated needlessly.

  Ignacio took a step forward, fists clenched. “My title may be a running joke among officers in the Church’s army, and I haven’t commanded men in a decade, but I’m still a soldier. I say we raise an army and fight. We’ll travel across the country, petition Argenta and Borgetza for aid.”

  “With what promise to secure their allegiance?” Serephina snapped. “Gold we do not have, or perhaps my hand in marriage?”

  To Arturo’s surprise, the Minister turned to him. “What would you do, Bellamont?”

  Lucero raised one white brow in a mocking echo of the question. Arturo cleared his throat, massaging his temples with his fingers.

  “There is Rodrigo Vasquez,” Diego said softly.

  “Who is that?” Serephina asked.

  Arturo met her demanding gaze. “The self-appointed Constable of Vallejo,” he replied, allowing a moment for the words to sink in. “His compound is some thirty miles east. He is in the process of raising an army of his own.”

  “For what purpose?” Ignacio asked.

  Arturo shook his head. “I don’t know, exactly. He is a revolutionary, a rebel. His cause is that of the people.”

  Lucero made a sound of complaint. “Well, is he set to overthrow the monarchy and make a people’s republic of us, or does he just want the High Cleric stopped?”

  “I know Rodrigo,” Hadrian spoke up abruptly. “We have been exchanging letters for some months. He would fight for Serephina to be crowned queen.”

  Arturo and Diego exchanged a speculative glance as Ignacio nodded authoritatively. “Then we will join him,” affirmed the Minister.

  “Not possible,” Hadrian said mutedly.

  “Why?” demanded Ignacio.

  The cleric’s mouth was pinched white around the edges. “I received a message this morning from a… friend in the Church. Rodrigo’s estate was attacked last night and put to the torch. There were no survivors.”

  Serephina made a muffled noise of horror and sunk into a chair. “What will we do?” she whispered.

  The answer came from the most unlikely of sources, as Lady Fiannan stood and faced the room, fixing her bright stare on the princess. Her words as she spoke held barely concealed pain, as though it went against her heart to speak them. “Your army exists, your highness, waiting for you to claim it. In the north of Tanalon, past the river that runs against nature.”

  Serephina frowned. “What’s this?”

  There was a heavy sigh from the corner of the room, as Finnéces bowed his head. Beside him, young Edan covered his face with his hands. Isidora gazed on her fellow Alesians, last of their line, and her eyes glistened as she said, “Hadrian Visconte, the cleric who is not a cleric, knows of what I speak.”

  “My lady,” Hadrian said, softly, helplessly. “There are other options.”

  Isidora drew herself up, eyes gleaming from beneath the fiery crown of her hair. “There are no other options, and we all know it.” She turned her gaze on Serephina, who suddenly seemed less regal in comparison, appearing small and frail as she sat limply in her chair. “The blood of my people runs in the north, and however weak the link is, we possess a weapon the High Cleric cannot equal with ten-thousand armed men.” A soft mewing noise came from Edan. Isidora registered the sound with a brief closing of her eyes.

  “And what weapon is this?” Ignacio asked fervently.

  Isidora swallowed convulsively, eyes tightly shut. Arturo took an unconscious step toward her, but paused as Lucero raised a staying hand. A single tear escaped her eyelashes and rolled down a golden cheek.

  “I see the road you’ve laid,” she murmured, so low only Arturo and Lucero heard. “Grant me the courage to pursue it.”

  Arturo felt a building pressure in his chest. He did not understand its source, which urged him to stop her, to halt her before she said more. Lucero’s arm grew stiff against his leg and he looked down, seeing the Scholar’s frown.

  “No,” he said, softly. “It is her choice to make.”

  Helpless, Arturo watched as Isidora opened her eyes. “I am the weapon,” she said, in a voice that was void of expression. “The last High Priestess of Istar, the last of Alesia’s royal line. I know now why the High Cleric sought my death. It was not me, specifically, he wanted when he ordered Alesia burned. It was this.”

  She drew from beneath the neckline of her gown a simple, dark pouch. Her fingers were steady as she untied the strings and reached within, pulling free the amulet of the Gods. There was no flash of light at its emergence, no display of sound or power. It looked exactly like a palm-sized disc of quartz.

  “Is she serious?” Ignacio murmured incredulously, glancing at Hadrian. The cleric nodded, eyes distant and dark with sorrow.

  “How do you know the destruction of your isle was the High Cleric’s doing?” Serephina asked curiously. “I have heard it was the Volgsmen, those barbarians from beyond the peninsula.”

  “Because they were searching for something,” Isidora replied. “My parents were tortured for days, but never once gave up their secret. The Sanctuary on the Hill of Almhain held no treasure, and yet every stone was upturned, every column
smashed. Each home on the isle was torn apart and burned, the rubble searched again. We three hid within the deep forest, where even our attackers feared to enter. By the time the fire reached us and we were forced out, they had taken their ships and gone.” She turned to Finnéces. “It makes sense now, doesn’t it?” He nodded weakly.

  “All that for a piece of rock?” the Minister pressed. Isidora’s heated gaze caused Ignacio to lift his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not understand.”

  “It is not some piece of rock,” she replied stonily. “It is the rock from which the God and Goddess were born into this world.”

  “If the amulet holds such power,” Diego began hesitantly, “why was it not used to defend Alesia?”

  “Violence is not the way of the Goddess’ priestesses,” Finnéces answered. “They would never condone its use, even to save Alesia.”

  “But the God is stronger here, on the peninsula,” Hadrian finished softly.

  “What exactly can the amulet do?” pressed Ignacio.

  Isidora’s gaze flickered uncertainly to the Alesians. “I don’t know,” she said softly.

  Finnéces answered with clear misgivings, “There is no record of the amulet having been used for war. We have only speculation as to what would occur.”

  “It’s safe to assume that Luther Viccole shares those speculations,” Hadrian countered gently. “We must know what he believes the amulet capable of.”

  Finnéces scowled. “As Istar guides the moon, the world’s waterways, and the earthly elements that sustain life, so Anshar guides the sun, standing between this world and the Other. He is the High One, who guards the Gates of Beyond.”