The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  Shock opened Elazar’s naturally shuttered expression. After a moment he nodded. Arturo, well aware that he had just taken a dangerous gamble, chose, for one of the few times in his life, to trust. “Friends, now that debts are paid?” he asked.

  “Friends,” Elazar said, fiercely.

  Though the roads leading north were virtually empty of travelers, they struck out over the open plain, heading northwest at first, for the cover of more hilly, forested land. And when the lowlands began to rise, and mountains grew larger in the east, they drove the horses north, and north still, through the days and some nights.

  Several times they were forced to alter their route, as Diego, whose eyes were sharpest, returned from scouting with word of travelers. Once, too, he rode full gallop into their midst, ordering them into dense thicket. There, they huddled together, covering the horses eyes and mouths as best they could, while a full regiment of Church soldiers passed threateningly close.

  After that, they rode with weapons close at hand. All but Isidora, who refused.

  Travel through the highlands was slow, the weather turning windy and bitter cold, the road they forged winding and narrow. The trees around them remained bare of new growth, the soil beneath rocky and dry, making for restless horses and tense riders. In less than a week, Arturo knew, travel would be near impossible, as the late spring rains would sweep down from the peak of Kilcara, the mighty, cloud covered mountain ever visible to the east. Beyond that highest, snowy peak of the Kilcaran Range, the border of Dunak lay, and beyond, all its many leagues of scorching sands, red dunes, and veiled-ones.

  Arturo did not know, could not, that the Master of Knives who had trained him in the lethal arts was dead some nine years, and his successor was the only friend he had made during his sojourn in Dunak. Despite friendship, there had been many truths left unspoken between them, so neither could he know that Devlin al’Ven had been born in a province both green and warm on the southern coast—the same province in which he’d been born—and had chosen to give up his place as leader of the veiled-ones and follow his destiny south, to Vianalon.

  There were many things Arturo did not know, about his parents, about Avosilea and its ancient ties to fabled Alesia. He could not know, either, the reason why his family had moved away from the province-center before his birth. As a youth he had loved to visit the city by the sea, shining like a pearl against green hills and sparkling waters. It was a seldom, treasured event, and he was too young then to question the dark, speculative gazes of its inhabitants.

  For they all knew, as he did not, that Lucinda de Galván, a mature woman of gentle disposition, had visited the eyrie of the enchantress for the second time in her life, and nine months later given birth to a boy.

  “What troubles you?” Diego murmured.

  “I am thinking of Dunak,” Arturo said, “and my friend, Devlin al’Ven.”

  Diego grunted. “From what you’ve told me of the time you spent in the desert, this Devlin can take care of himself.”

  Arturo smiled grimly. “Indeed he can.”

  There was a noise opposite them, and the men fell silent to watch Isidora Fiannan rise and walk stiffly around the fire. She settled beside Arturo, holding her hands toward the warming flames. Her hair fell over her shoulders and chest, the curls burnished gold by the light.

  “Why are you still awake, my lady?” Diego asked.

  Isidora looked at him, then Arturo, and said haltingly, “I think… it seems the teachings of Sanctuary bore numerous gaps. I have waited some time to be sure, before coming to you.”

  Arturo frowned at her. “Meaning?”

  Her eyes were dark, troubled. “On Alesia, the power wielded by the priestesses comes directly from the bond they have with Istar. We are taught this from the first. When I set foot on the peninsula, my link with the Goddess was broken. So, too, I thought, was my power.”

  Arturo cleared his throat, heard a strange humming in his ears. “And now?” he whispered, and watched Isidora’s blue eyes grow distant.

  She was remembering a morning five days prior. She had awakened, as was habit, in the last hour before sunrise. Rising soundlessly from her blanket next to Finnéces, she swung a shawl about her shoulders against the northern chill. Careful to avoid the others, and the spot where Diego was sitting watch, she walked only as far as she needed for privacy.

  The night was calm, its breath held before the release of day. Above her, unfelt wind stirred branches. An owl hooted once, plaintively, and she listened to the faint echoes of that call. She knelt on the earth and bowed her head to begin her prayers, and as every morning since the fall of Alesia, she could not bring the words to her lips.

  There was a hollow ache in her breast, and this, too, was familiar.

  But earlier that night, in Vianalon, Devlin al’Ven had summoned such power from the Taproot of the peninsula that he had inadvertently awakened another power, dormant for millennia since the time when Gods had walked among men. So long had the serpent slumbered beneath the Taproot, a muted, forgotten thread in the tapestry of Time, that its awakening was not felt by any man, only Beyond, where the Gods dwelled.

  Very briefly, Istar’s grief since Alesia’s ruin dimmed, for the serpent had had a name once, and had flown with its kind in the skies of ancient days. Before men had fashioned weapons against them, had hunted them in their lairs, destroyed their breeding grounds and killed all but one. Last of its kind, eldest of all, named Shenlith, Serpent of the Root. Thus the Goddess’ memory turned again to endings and grief, and the moon which had barely begun to shine was darkened once more.

  And so, kneeling on rocky ground in the north of Tanalon, as Isidora Fiannan reached desperately for the touch of the Goddess, she touched instead upon a dragon. Newly awakened to hunger, with an appetite that spanned a thousand years of sleep and was whetted for souls.

  Though she was many leagues from where the Taproot pulsed, its spiraling arms extended beneath the land to every border of earth and sea. It was along one of those supporting veins that the appetite of the creature extended, so the impressions that came to her were diluted, which saved her life.

  Isidora Sitha Fiannan.

  The voice came from beneath her, within her, in a tone so ancient and cold that she opened her mouth to scream. No sound came from her throat, which was clamped tight in fear. Curious warmth surged upward to her head, and the touch was like the breath of fire, though not hurtful.

  Child of Isstar, the voice hissed, more gently, if a voice so old could be gentle. I am the Eldest. Do you know me?

  It felt as if the ground was shaking, but it was only her body trembling violently. She closed her eyes, remembered to breathe. No, she whispered within her mind.

  I am Shenlith of the Derkesthai. I am Drakon, the Serpent of the Root.

  At his proclamation, Isidora felt a strange calm descend upon her. Though she had been taught nothing on Alesia of this creature—could hardly fathom that it was speaking to her—there arose a readiness in her blood, an anticipation, as if it were lore already known but forgotten, waiting for remembrance.

  After a span of time that was moments, yet vast, the dragon asked, What iss this darkness in which no moon sshines?

  She could not help but know what he meant. In a tone she did not recognize, one older and wiser than her own, she answered unthinking, It is Istar’s line broken. Once, when she took the Children to Alesia, for forgetting, and now forever, with Alesia gone.

  Silence, then a voice no longer cold, but filled with sorrow. Proud sstar, most bright and treasured, what evil has caused your fall? Isidora knew there was no answer she could give, for he spoke of a Goddess. So she said nothing, numbed by his words, this meeting, and she did not feel the small rocks digging into her knees, or the northern air against her skin.

  When she had just begun to think the dream done, was becoming aware again of the night, of the
cold, there was a great hiss of sound. Intuitively, she knew it was the laughter of a dragon, lightly condescending but made deep by age, by grief.

  A pressure was building, pressing against her lungs, the skin of her face. There was a warm, static wind of no natural current and it lifted tendrils of her hair. Her blood coursed feverishly against her skin, defiant and vital.

  Shenlith said, Long before the first Derkesthai took flight, before mortal men walked, before even the Gods opened their eyes, there was domhain lár, the Root I guard. What iss a broken line of power when the blood of the Taproot sings?

  The pressure was almost too great to bear. Isidora felt her spine bow back and dimly she saw stars, twinkling far above. Blood coursed in her ears, and in its pulsing roar she heard music, the primeval drumbeat of life.

  There was heat again, searing from within, and light throughout the clearing, blazing forth like a star from the amulet beneath her blouse.

  And from her open eyes flowed tears of release and gratitude, as the pressure broke and power bloomed inside her once more, filling, overflowing that hollow space, there since leaving Alesia.

  She was made to understand then, profoundly, what the veiled-ones had always known. Shenlith’s gift to her—she who bore on her person a small, treasured piece of the Taproot he guarded—was the knowledge that service to Istar and Anshar was a choice made through love, but power was a bond between the blood and the heart of the land.

  It was just past dawn when Finnéces found her, still kneeling, voice soft and calm as she chanted the familiar prayers. He sat and listened to the ceremonial words of safekeeping and thanksgiving. When she was through, she opened her eyes and told him of what had happened, of the magic returned. He wept to see the hope in her eyes. And when she asked if the servants of the God on Alesia, scribes and history-keepers, had known of Shenlith, and what he guarded, Finnéces nodded but offered nothing more. There was an old longing in his eyes, a sorrow she did not know, and so she did not press him further.

  Of these memories Arturo knew nothing, seeing only the stillness, the ethereal quality of Isidora’s features illumined by firelight. She stared so deeply into his eyes that he felt naked, exposed to a gaze that was timeless and exacting.

  Already nostalgic, his memory cycled easily back to the night long ago when he’d undergone the final rite of passage of the veiled-ones. Naked and defenseless, he’d been made to spend a night in the desert without food or water, with only the heavy mantel of stars and Istar’s blue light to carry him through to the dawn.

  He’d returned from the rite a changed man; empty where passion had once claimed him, clean where doubt had once festered. A veiled-one and not, for he’d forged no tie with the heart of the land. He had left Dunak the following day to present himself, wearing black for the first time, as assassin and courtier to his king.

  “The power has returned,” Isidora said.

  And she held up her right hand, and before their eyes, sparks crackled along her fingertips. There was a gasp from nearby; Serephina’s eyes were open and she stared with fear and wonder at Isidora’s hand. Finnéces and Edan wore remarkably similar smiles; one face old, one young, both matching sorrow with joy.

  It was all Arturo could do not to leap from his seat and back away. His blood roared, heart pumping furiously. There was a tingling on his palms and he rubbed them roughly against his thighs.

  Isidora, watching him, sighed and curled her fingers inward. Light flared briefly in her palm before being smothered.

  “What does this mean?” Diego asked, voice reedy with shock.

  Lucero’s snoring turned into a cough, which a moment later became laughter. The Scholar groaned as he sat up. Unaware of their conversation, he said, “I had the most marvelous dream, my friends. There were rivers in the desert, and an army waiting.”

  “Past a river that runs against nature,” murmured Hadrian, eyes clear of sleep as he sat up.

  There was a stunned silence, for over the last weeks of travel they had talked often, sometimes ceaselessly from dawn to dusk, of the portents in Isidora’s dream. Skepticism of those Calabrian-bred had altered slowly, subtly, as the Alesians wove stories of their lost home, and the magic that lived there. So while they traveled they had been waiting for some sign of where, in the north, they would go.

  Never once had anyone thought of Dunak, though it lay, as unerringly as a compass needle, exactly north of Vianalon.

  It was Diego who broke the reverie, saying, “That is quite a dream. Were there mythical beasts, too, with wings?”

  Lucero alone found humor, chuckling softly. “Nay,” he said. “Unless the cloaks of the veiled-ones are wings, and their bodies inhuman beneath their veils.”

  “It is impossible, what you speak.” Unlikely source, those words, from Isidora’s mouth.

  Lucero cocked his head. “Unless an attempt is made, how will you know what is possible?”

  She replied, none to steadily, “It would be folly, great folly, to presume myself capable of bringing water to the desert.” She glanced at Arturo and her voice took on a note of hysteria, “We are talking about a power to change the nature of the land.”

  “Maybe it’s not a literal idea, but a figurative one,” mused Serephina.

  “Either way, it would mean bringing a foreign army into Tanalon,” Diego muttered.

  Lucero, face still pointed unerringly at Isidora, asked, “Is it so different in Alesia, where rites are performed to ensure rich harvest, calm seas, mild winters?”

  Isidora stared at the Scholar for a moment, then stood abruptly and walked into the darkness. She felt raw, her core opened wide by the voice of Shenlith, the truth he had offered. The truth that power need not come from the Gods, that it was always present, beneath the land, at its heart. And that heart, from which the gift of her blood had arisen, was not in Alesia, beautiful Alesia, but here, on the God’s peninsula.

  Calabria.

  She felt like a child again, all the teachings of Sanctuary stripped away.

  She stumbled over rocks and roots, blinded by tears more than the starry night, until she fell helplessly against the base of a tree. Cradling her knees to her chest, she lowered her head and wished she knew to whom she should pray.

  “It is so hard,” spoke a wavering, thin voice, “to want so much, and to be so young.”

  Isidora’s head whipped up, tears ending on a gasp. The crone of her dream stood several feet away. Her small body was bundled against the cold; visible only were her creased face and hands, in which danced a necklace of ivory beads.

  It was too much for one mind to accept, and so, thinking this an apparition, Isidora replied, “Yes.”

  The crone cackled, narrow shoulders shaking with mirth. “Look, then, Isidora Fiannan, upon the gift of Shenlith, and be young no longer!”

  She flung out one hand, and light exploded from her palm like liquid fire, arching bright and searing. It was daylight suddenly, so intense was the light that illumined the hillside. And in the numbing shock, the confusion of the moment, Isidora thought she heard the sound of water, rushing and thick around her, and music, that deep, drumming song.

  “Isidora!” Arturo yelled, dimly, as though far away.

  “Behold, child,” said the crone, “for here is a Mystery: the true power of the Gods was given unto Them by the land, for the needs of the land were what birthed Them.”

  Isidora looked, squinting into the brilliant light, and saw that around her the trees, empty of life before, were now hung heavy with glossy leaves and vines. Her fingers dug into the soil beneath her, dark and loose and fragrant. A narrow fissure several yards away was full of rushing water. There was a child beside the stream. Not Edan, though. Laughing lightly, the boy bent to drink.

  The light still sparkled in the air, fading slowly, and as it dissipated Isidora expected the illusion to vanish. It did not, and neither d
id the crone.

  It was not a dream, then.

  “Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.

  The woman shrugged. “As I told you before, I am nameless.”

  She swallowed, tried to stand and found her limbs would not move. “What do you want with me?” she whispered.

  The boy lifted his head from the stream and pivoted, face shadowed as natural night returned. Isidora watched him warily as he skipped toward her, dark curls bouncing around his face. He sat on the ground before her and reached for her hands.

  Despite all, she was surprised that, indeed, she felt his touch, warm and human. “You are the queen who will never be queen,” he recited in a light, singsong voice. “I am Pandion.”

  “I would recommend, young sir, that you move away from the lady.”

  The boy glanced up and smiled brightly at Diego, who stood to the side of the tree, crossbow aimed at the child’s heart. All at once there was pandemonium, as the bow snapped in half and Diego cried out in pain. Isidora saw Ignacio lunge at the crone, who gestured casually with one small hand. The large man toppled soundlessly to the ground, and Serephina screamed.

  Knowing what was coming next, Isidora cried, “Arturo, no!” and the knife that was to bury itself in the crone’s chest was at the last moment diverted, and sunk into the ground at her feet.

  What might have been surprise briefly took hold of the crone’s features, as she stared at the hilt of the knife. She looked up at Isidora. “You are not as foolish as I feared, if you have among your company a veiled-one.” Then, to the darkness, “Step forward, so that I might know you by your eyes.”

  The phrase was a common one, and ancient as well, among veiled-ones.

  Still concealed somewhere in the starry half-light of the hillside, Arturo spoke the ritualistic response, “To see my eyes is death, unless you name yourself friend.”