The Long Road.
What every child of Avosilea both dreaded and desired to hear from the enchantress’ lips. It meant a life of great trial and danger, but if one were bold enough, if the blood within sung clearly enough, the end of that road was a rebirth of what had lain dormant for more than twenty years, since the Year of Death. A rebirth of what they had given up to save themselves from exposure to those who hunted them.
The power that was birthright to those descended from the Isle of Dusk.
It was Astin who asked, “You are a mystic?”
“No,” Devlin said. “I am a veiled-one.” He looked at Lenora as he said, “For me, it is not like the stories our parents tell. I do not summon power to my fingertips with a thought. I cannot make water run or fire burn, or bring rain and lightning into the sky. What I can do is align myself with the depth of this peninsula. I feel the heart of the land, the hearts of the men and beasts that walk upon it.”
Lenora didn’t realize she had begun to shiver until she heard her teeth chattering.
“The veiled-ones are descendants of Alesia?” Astin asked, stupefied.
Devlin’s lips quirked. “No, my friend,” he said. “Alesians are the descendants of them. The veiled-ones are the Children of Calabria, which was the first home of the Gods, before evil in the hearts of men denied Them love, and forsook the gifts of blood. Istar, who grieved most, took from Dunak the Stone of Beginning, and thus the land became desert. She fled to Alesia, and many followed Her, to rebuild Sanctuary. Those most treasured, however, stayed in the Oasis She left for them, for they were the last of Her love for Calabria.”
“Unbelievable,” Astin whispered.
“That’s what I thought, at first,” Devlin agreed. “But the Master of Knives read my heart, and set me alone on a dune beneath the moon, and then the sun, and I heard the heart of the land and became a veiled-one.”
After a moment of silence, Astin asked, “And what of the God?”
Devlin spoke to the floor, “The God is as the sky, limitless and static. He could not remove himself from Calabria, just as the sky cannot refuse to look down on the ground. Even in the night, when Istar’s moon rises over the peninsula, it is Anshar’s light that shines upon it.”
“That is a beautiful story,” Lenora murmured.
His blue eyes lifted, narrowing on her. “You know it is true, Lenora, for you, too, walk the Long Road.”
The core of her, liquid as the sea, became hard and heavy as iron. “I walk my own road,” she said coldly. “I know no higher power but memory.”
“Truly?” he asked, eyes flashing. “Is that what you think, having heard your destiny from the enchantress?”
She laughed mirthlessly. “Do you want to know what the enchantress told me of grand destiny, of the Long Road with its shining end? She spoke of my heart’s death, which would bring disease wherever I walked. I did not listen to more, but fled the eyrie. She is a craven, demented old woman who feeds on youth desperate for purpose in their lives. That is all we are, we Avosileans, lost souls looking for purpose.”
“Lenora,” Astin whispered brokenly.
Devlin sighed, and for a moment she glimpsed something raw in his face, something that threatened the cold core of her. Then his gaze was empty again as he said, “I am sorry that your road is longer than most, but if it were not fit for you, it would not be yours. I have watched you from Dunak these many years, and if you think you have not been walking all this time on the enchantress’ path, you are blind.”
“How dare you!” she hissed.
“This isn’t—” Astin began, and was stopped when Devlin shot him a dark glance.
He turned back to Lenora, whose hands were clenched at her neck in fury. “I have never been able to reach across the land and read your heart,” he said. “Perhaps it died in Borgetza, with King Terrin, who even now is gathering an army to march upon Tanalon. He does not want the land left ripe by the king you killed. He will destroy everything in his path to find you.”
Lenora gasped, and the air in her lungs was cold with fear. “You lie,” she whispered.
A line appeared between Devlin’s eyes as he frowned. “There is no reason for me to lie. There are veiled-ones throughout Borgetza. They move freely through Terrin’s court. Through every court in Calabria.”
The sounds from the tavern beneath made the silence thicker, more potent. It was broken by Astin’s curious voice, “Is that how you knew about Armando?”
Devlin smiled slightly, but spoke to Lenora, “How else do you think you walked away from Viccole all those times without a knife in your back?”
It was too much knowledge, and she cried, “No more!” and turned sharply away. She clapped her hands to her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more of this.”
Astin moved as if to go to her, but Devlin lifted a hand to stop him. Please, he mouthed, and nodded toward the door. For a moment Astin was torn, but then, glancing once more at his sister, he nodded and slipped from the room.
She jerked in place as Devlin placed his hands gently over hers, drawing them away from her ears. Before she could move, he had crossed her arms and covered them with his, effectively trapping her in a gentle embrace. The top of her head brushed his chin; warmth from his chest radiated onto her back. She felt stifled and despite knowing he would never harm her, panic began to rise in her throat, shortening her breath.
He bent his head beside hers, spoke softly against her ear, “You need to hear this, and then I promise I’ll let you go. I’ll even let you try to hit me.” When she didn’t laugh, or say anything, he sighed. This close to her, he could in fact gain a sense of her heart. It was certainly there, a fragile yet firm beat against his chest. Of the deeper truths within, though, he saw nothing.
“If you had stayed in the eyrie,” he said softly, “to hear of the glory your deeds would bring to the land, you would have faltered when the time came. You ran because she made you run, because that, too, was destiny. She told you that you would be the catalyst that brought about the death of kings, did she not?”
Stunned beyond reason by his words, she nodded. His hands tightened on her shoulders; she was convinced she was imagining things as he pressed his lips to her hair. “Armando is dead, and you have avenged a great wrong done to our people,” he said, and she could feel the words resonate through his chest, through hers. “Terrin of Borgetza was dead the day he touched you, though he has not yet felt my knives.”
“Devlin.” The word was torn from her throat, a distant, feeble echo of the heart.
“I’m here,” he said, and held her tighter. “I came back as I promised.”
Her body began to tremble, and it was several long moments before he realized she was not crying, but laughing. As he released her and she turned toward him, though, there were tears on her face even as she smiled.
“Don’t you see?” she asked, shrugged, laughing helplessly. “You are finally here, but I am not. You are sixteen years too late, Devlin al’Ven.”
She walked past him to the door and opened it. There was nothing of humor in her face as she looked at him. “I wish to rest and compose myself before going downstairs. Please relay to Astin whatever information you gleaned from the merchant. If he wishes to speak after me, to provide the people with details relevant to their safety, he is welcome to. Good evening, Devlin.”
He walked toward her, but stopped just within the door. He was standing close enough for her to touch, for her to smell the clean masculinity of his skin.
His eyes were as clear and blue as the water of Avosilea.
“I did lie when I said your heart died in Borgetza. I know when it died, and where. In the eyrie I was told what would become of you if I went to that cove that afternoon. I did what I did for the sake of Calabria.”
“How charming,” she said thinly, ignoring the dull, painful throb of her heart. “
You took my innocence because an old woman told you it was destiny. Do not reward yourself the blame, Devlin. You are not so memorable.”
He took a short step toward her, breath hissing through his teeth. His brow was furrowed, shoulders bunched, and it was the closest she had seen yet to a break in his composure. “Perhaps the enchantress was wrong,” he ground out, “and there is no redemption for your soul. Perhaps you are relieved that Terrin rides for Tanalon and you secretly lust for his lash and body.”
Her open palm connected with his face in a sharp clap of sound. She gasped, mouth falling open in surprise as her hand began to sting, his cheek to redden. “You should not have said that,” she said tremulously. To her shame, her eyes began to water, her shoulders to tremble.
In the day since Devlin al’Ven had walked back into her life, she had felt more emotion than she had in over a decade. Since Borgetza, since Terrin. The sphere of detachment that had closed around her on that dark, final night in Siezo had become so much a part of her that now, as it cracked apart, she did not know herself.
“What are you doing to me?” she mumbled, bringing a hand to her head.
The fabric of his cloak brush her arms as he stepped forward, trapping her against the doorframe. He bent his head once more to hers, his lips grazing her cheek, cool and silky against her burning skin. “I am making you feel again, Lenora.”
He was overwhelming her senses, standing so close. She clenched her hands against the powerful need to reach out, to move her hands over his waist, to embrace him and be embraced. To be frail and weak in his arms. To weep.
“I do not want to feel,” she said.
This time she could not mistake his intent, as he pressed his mouth beneath her ear. Warm currents of feeling pulsed down her spine and the breath left her lungs in a rush.
His chest quivered as he laughed silently. “Neither do I, my sweet. I am a veiled-one. It is not in our nature to feel, only to act.”
She lifted a hand to his chest, bracing herself as his head lifted, as she looked up at him. “Why are you here, Devlin? Why did you come back?” she asked, and steadied herself for the answer.
It was not the one she expected.
“Because Luther Viccole used you to kill a king, and in the time since Armando’s death there have been numerous attempts made on your life. I could not in good conscience continue to order your protection as Master of Knives, so I stepped down.”
She opened her mouth but he lifted a hand. “Furthermore, the Borgetzan ambassador to Tanalon, who died suddenly just days before Armando’s death, was a spy of Terrin’s. His mission was to locate you and report back to Borgetza. Terrin received word of his death as sign that his man had found you and been eliminated before returning with your whereabouts. His mania has only increased in the years since you knew him. He is half-mad and will stop at nothing to find you.”
She ignored the renewed shiver of fear his words provoked. “Did a veiled-one kill the ambassador?” she asked haltingly.
“No,” he replied. “Isidora Fiannan, last Lady of Alesia, was God-Touched that night. She laid a hand upon him and such was the disease of his heart that his life was forfeit.”
“So it’s true,” she murmured wonderingly.
Some of her earliest memories were of her father sitting at her beside, telling stories of the magic of Alesia until she fell asleep, to dream dazzling dreams of color and beauty. She looked up, and Devlin could see her mind working, putting pieces of the puzzle together.
“I received word from a woman across the river that the Lady Fiannan was here. I never made the time to call upon her. It was only days after her arrival that the poison reached lethality, and then she fled with the princess.” She paused, then admitted, “Perhaps I was afraid, to have the truth of Alesia’s ruin from her lips. She was framed for Armando’s death, did you know? I found out… after.”
Devlin nodded. “Viccole arranged too the burning of Alesia.”
Lenora’s hand launched to her throat. “Why?” she gasped.
“The Stone of Beginning is in the Lady’s possession.”
Tension lifted her shoulders; blood rushed in her ears like the sound of great wings beating. “We cannot let him find her,” she said.
His eyes grew abruptly unfocused, presence retreating from the shell of flesh. Lenora watched the transition with fear, and some awe. A long moment later, he returned to the room, and smiled grimly. “She is well protected, now.”
“What do you mean, now?” she demanded.
His brows lifted, expression ironic. “The enchantress has left the eyrie of Avosilea.” His gaze narrowed, became challenging. “She sends her regards.”
“You jest,” Lenora spoke weakly.
For the first time in a great many years, she saw Devlin al’Ven grin, and the skin around his eyes crinkled handsomely. Time had been kind to him, seasoning the angularness of youth into the sleek hardness of manhood.
Her heart was uncomfortably warm in her chest.
“I will leave you now, Mistress di Salvatoré, to ready yourself.”
He turned toward the hallway and she caught his arm. Her heart spoke the words before her mind could overrule them, “You truly are staying?”
His gaze flowed over her face to her neck, where her pulse jumped against her skin. “Yes, Lenora, I’m staying,” he said, and walked soundlessly down the hall.
Chapter Twenty
The Pirate’s Den was at uncomfortable capacity, and still the doors opened every few moments, admitting more persons of various disreputable appearances. Whores and thieves, gamblers and pickpockets, common laborers, poor craftsmen, and the very pirates the tavern was named for all gathered around the circular tables until there was standing room only.
After leaving Lenora, Devlin had stopped in his room to change into the ensemble Astin had left for him. In unremarkable trousers and blouse, a hat cocked down to conceal the tattoos around his eyes, he was merely another ruffian come to hear the Dark Mistress speak.
I am making you feel again.
Leaning against a far wall, face shadowed by ruddy lamplight, Devlin grimaced at the memory of his words, at the presumptuousness of his actions with Lenora not an hour before. He had wanted more, so much more, and had nearly been betrayed by that need. And what he had spoken was truth, for at the last, he had seen a glimmer in her eyes that was vibrant and passionate, as young Lenora of Avosilea had been.
It was a double edged truth, however, for he, too, was being made to feel.
In Dunak, personal attachments were a misguided luxury. At any time a man or woman might be called upon to leave the desert and join the cause in another kingdom of the peninsula. They might be replacing a friend grown old and dying in a distant land, to allow him or her a final journey back to the desert and the right to final rest. There was great respect and fondness among the veiled-ones, born of their lineage and shared mysteries, but love was anathema, an emotion they relinquished for duty and destiny.
As Master of Knives, Devlin had been expected to join with daughters of the blood, to ensure the continuation of the tribe. He had attempted once such liaison, but to his private shame had not been able to complete the task. No more women came to him, and it was soon known that his heart was too tied to the land to pursue such impersonal acts.
Opening his senses to the room, he let the disjointed conversations float around him. Male and female tones, young and old, intertwined in raucous harmony. It was not their words that Devlin drew in like breath into his lungs, but the emotions of their hearts, and the common threads that united them all.
Urgency and fear and hope.
The last emotion surged bright in his blood as a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Devlin lifted his head just enough so he could view the staircase. There, on the first landing, stood a solitary woman in black. Her gown was raw silk, gleaming dully in the light
of wall sconces. Expertly tailored, it hugged her torso and hips like a lover’s hands before falling in folds to the floor. She had let her hair down so that it coiled like shining black snacks over her shoulders and back. Only the lower half of her face was visible, and held the barest trace of a smile. Her brow and eyes were shadowed by a short, loosely knit veil of black lace.
The rising murmur of voices was quenched as she gestured lazily with a gloved hand.
“It is not midnight and you’re already half drunk,” she said with a proprietary sniff. Beneath the veil, her dark gaze roamed the crowd. “May I assume you’ve paid Marius for those drinks in your hands?”
The wizened barkeep straightened from his position behind the long counter. “I am offering free drinks tonight, Mistress.”
Her gaze swung and fixed on him, and from across the room Devlin could see the force with which the barkeep swallowed. “Are you?” she purred. The partial smile returned. “Where, then, is mine?”
So many men moved at once toward the bar that they collided. Women’s knowing laughter rang out as the men swung friendly fists and shoved each other in effort to reach Marius first.
“Glad I’m married,” spoke a voice to Devlin’s right. He grunted noncommittally and the man moved closer, offering a hand. “Have we met? I am Elazar Laroque, ex-pirate, dock-manager of L’Sere, veritable jack-of-trades.”
“Devlin al’Ven,” he said, and shook the man’s hand without turning.
“Are you new to the Alley, then?” asked Elazar.
“Yes.” Devlin could feel the man stiffening, alerted by his reticent attitude. He wished fervently that he would desist, melt into the crowd and find another conversation. “I’m an old friend of Mistress di Salvatoré,” he added.
“Is that so?” he asked, voice sharpening. “I’ve never heard of you.”
Sighing, Devlin pushed up the brim of his hat and met the man’s interested gaze. He watched surprise, then fear pass over Elazar’s face, and finally cautious appraisal. “Friend of Lenora,” he mused. “And… Bellamont, perhaps?”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 17