The crone laughed and it was a strange, youthful sound. “By the light of the stars on the sands, I am friend to you.”
Suddenly Arturo was there, figure resolving itself from shadow, from nothingness. He towered over the crone, dark and menacing. “Who are you, to know the words of greeting among veiled-ones?”
“I am the Nameless,” she replied, and the stress on the word brought a new dimension to the night. Something shifted in Arturo’s posture, a weakening almost, and then, remarkably, he fell to his knees.
“Impossible,” he murmured. “You are dead some five hundred years.”
The Nameless had not moved, but as Arturo’s words echoed in the night, she seemed suddenly less solid, as though by mentioning Time, she became truly old.
Her voice was thinner than before, no color at all in it, “A hundred years is a day to one as old as I am.”
Ignacio stirred on the ground, awoke from stupor with a groan. “Wha—?” he began, to be hushed by Hadrian, who was crouched beside the Minister.
“And the boy?” Arturo asked, still kneeling, body robbed of will. He felt soulless, empty of everything and indistinct, as surely as he had been on that starry night in Dunak.
“He is Pandion, Child of Time, and we are here to aid you on your journey, so that the grief of Istar and wrath of Anshar might not fall together on the land and wipe clean the world of men.”
Isidora looked down at the boy sitting before her, saw in his eyes an age that she could not fathom, a memory that spanned Time. She felt reduced, mortal and transitory, as all life was to beings such as these two.
“Why?” she croaked.
Old, old sorrow filled the boy’s eyes. It was not her implied question that he answered, but another one. “Because the Gardens of Almhain are no more.”
In the night, free of sound but for the slowing gurgles of a creek, they all heard, and felt deep in their hearts those words. Lucero Tuturro, standing alone in the shadows, touched the space above his heart with his broken hands, treasuring the fateful stirrings of hope.
*
And in that moment, many miles south, Devlin al’Ven left a withdrawn and pale Lenora di Salvatoré in the care of her family, and Elazar and Elena in the care of his own. He walked through the starry, mild night to sit beside an ancient tree and look down on the shadowed cove of his memory.
Unable to think of Lenora, and the constant grief in her eyes, he remembered instead the night in Vianalon when he’d touched a power not felt in the world for a thousand years.
*
In the Oasis of Dunak, where the seven sons of the late king vied for power, Ezekiel ibn Dukari received word from the new Master of Knives that in bordering Borgetza, and western Argenta, final preparations were underway in the armies gathered to pluck the Peninsula’s Rose from the hand of House Caville. As he gave the order of war to the Master of Knives, he knew that his brothers would raise armies of their own, to fight for the capital in his absence.
There had not been civil war in Dunak in a hundred years, but then the king had died, leaving seven sons and no proclaimed heir. Three were old enough to rule by Dunak law and born of different mothers, they shared no love between them.
After the veiled-one had gone, Ezekiel stood alone at a window in his chambers, staring southwest, toward Tanalon. He tried to imagine the lushness there, the exotic and verdant landscapes, the great centers of learning and trade, and could not overcome a lifetime’s memory of sand. All he saw in his mind of Tanalon was its ruin, all the greenness, the gentle life, bending as the fists of Argenta and Borgetza crashed together on Vianalon.
Ezekiel, eldest and most beloved of the late king—who had, in fact, been named heir with the his father’s last, private breath—did not know why the thought troubled him so, only that he had felt a wrongness in the world since the night King Armando had passed to the Gods.
He thought of the princess who had disappeared, and spoke aloud her name.
Chapter Twenty-two
Arturo awoke from a light sleep before sunrise. Predawn light filtered eerily through the high northern landscape, illumining snaking tendrils of fog which moved among dark limbs of trees, swirled around outcroppings of rock, passed thickly among sleeping bodies.
He rose and stretched the cramps from his back, then bent to add another damp log to the waning campfire. As the pitiful blaze popped and struggled and the cold air raised bumps on his flesh, he mused that not so many weeks ago, he’d thought a life of blissful retirement was ahead. Now, a home of his own, preferably including access to hot water and a large bed, seemed as distant as a dream.
As he prodded the smoking logs with a stick, the chill breeze swept the indistinct murmur of voices to his ear. His hand stilled as he listened, but the fog obscured the noise so that he could not be sure who spoke, or where.
With growing unease, he rose and walked carefully through the camp until he came upon the spot where Diego sat watch. His partner was snoring softly, head propped against the rock in a markedly uncomfortable fashion. Arturo knelt and shook his shoulder. Diego huffed, still snoring, and rolled away so that his head dropped with a thump to the mossy ground.
The hairs on Arturo’s neck and arms were prickling as he stood. He focused on the whisper of voices, turning his head in degrees to pinpoint the sound. When he was certain of the general direction, he set off slowly through the mist, wary of shadows marking trees or land change. He walked for what felt an eternity through the shifting, colorless world, and by the time the voices became clear, he was uncertain whether or not he was dreaming.
The fog broke suddenly around the base of a large tree. The crone and boy sat before the trunk, and Isidora knelt before them. They were enveloped in soft dawn light, a cocoon of clarity around which flowed sheets of damp mist.
“A veiled-one with no veil, and no markings of the Mysteries,” said the crone, eyes dark and glittering as she welcomed him with a raised hand.
Isidora turned to look at him, smiling slightly as she patted the ground beside her. Arturo knelt, sitting back on his heels, though his eyes never left those of the crone. “I underwent all trials,” he said, “but left the desert before joining the land-bond of the tribe.”
“A pity,” said the crone. “Why leave at all?”
Words like duty, and honor, seemed trite suddenly. Perhaps it was the quality of the light, gentle and coming from all around, or the awe he felt sitting in the presence of the veiled-ones most fantastic legend—known only as the Nameless, who had brought the forgotten Mystery of the land-bond to Dunak—but the truth came easy to his tongue.
“I was afraid,” he said, and it was no small thing, for he had made a life of lies.
Beside the crone, the boy Pandion bobbed his head. “You walk the long road, long road,” he chanted, until the crone lay a staying hand on his arm.
The pressure of Isidora’s fingers on his made Arturo turn to look at her. He remembered that first night in Vianalon, when they had spoken of things he’d told no living soul. She was smiling softly now, her eyes bright and young, full of something unfamiliar. It was as though the grief that had shaped her since their meeting was finally dimming.
Released of constant sorrow, her face bore a radiant, hopeful beauty. His gaze fell to her lips, parted slightly, tinted rose. Strange, that he’d never noticed how lovely her mouth was, the lower lip sumptuous and full, the upper a perfect bow.
Her sudden frown brought him back to himself, to the strangeness of this predawn hour and his company. “The Nameless has just told me the lineage of the veiled-ones,” she said, her brow clearing of its vertical line, “and the true origin of the amulet of the Gods.”
“You remember the fable, don’t you?” asked the crone, lightly mocking.
In the wake of such sudden desire, Arturo felt cold, piercingly clearheaded. “I do,” he said, and recited tonelessly, �
�‘In the Age of Chaos, from the ground rose a finger of domhain lár, the Taproot, and from that bulb did Dawn and Dusk emerge, and the seasons, and the elements, given unto the care of the land’s first children, Anshar and Istar, to pass unto those faithful to Them and safeguard against Dark with no Light.’”
“But you do not believe, believe,” sung Pandion.
“No, I do not believe it.”
The crone cocked her head. “What, if anything, do you believe?”
Memories. Avosilea by the Sea. His mother’s tears as he’d left, his father’s quiet pride. Lenora and Astin di Salvatoré as he’d first stumbled upon them, wearing rags and begging on the streets of Vianalon. The unlikely friendship formed with Diego Roldan, a bond that was closer than any he’d shared with his brothers. The trials he’d undergone in Dunak, in dim chambers with his dead king. Assassinations throughout the peninsula, a dead prince in Borgetza, mercenary work in Argenta and wild, exotic lands far from familiar shores. His king’s smile as he’d betrayed everything Arturo believed in.
Knives and blood and a Scholar’s eyes.
“I believe in an oath I swore, to protect and serve this lady beside me,” he said hollowly. “Beyond her, I believe in no cause.”
Pandion looked at him gravely, eyes solemn and wide. The crone’s gaze settled unblinkingly on Isidora. “Were you aware of this man’s oath?”
Face shadowed by her hair, she whispered, “No.”
The black eyes fixed again on him. “There is something I wish to tell you, Arturo Bellamont de Galván,” said the crone, and before he could react to her naming his true name, she continued, “something it is past time you heard.”
Thus did Arturo learn of the true origin of the Oasis of Dunak, forged by Istar to sustain Her beloved children, those She left behind. He learned, too, of Alesia, the isle to which the Goddess fled, and of the God, who was unable to follow. Of the Taproot, and the beast who slept beneath it, and of the race of Derkesthai, whose purpose was to safeguard that source of earthly life.
The Nameless spoke, too, of the Second Age of Chaos, in which mankind turned against service of the Gods, and in doing so forsook their bond to heart of the land. The Great Forgetting, she called it, the betrayal of love most sacred, that of the earth’s request for life.
It was a long tale, and long in the telling, though the half-light did not change and the dawn was held in pause. And at the end of it, the Nameless spoke again of the Derkesthai, and the other noble and magical races that had been given life through love, and were ultimately destroyed by fear and hatred. Fantastical beasts that gathered even now at the Gates of Beyond, readying at Anshar’s command for vengeance upon the insidious race of men.
“Though the evil of mankind is vast,” spoke the crone, “and for our transgressions against the land we face the eternal judgment, domhain lár does not care for good and evil, except in their relation to the continuation of balance and life. It is called the heart of the land for one reason only, because its very nature is love.”
The Nameless lifted her hands from her lap, the strange necklace of ivory beads clacking lightly across her bony knuckles. “Thus was I born, a human babe with the blood of Drakon within me, and so were you born, Isidora Fiannan, and you as well, Bellamont. We are workings in a tapestry of unfathomable proportion, brought together by destiny to turn away the ending of all beginnings.”
Isidora looked at him, they all looked at him, and he shook his head. “Do not include me in your design, Ancient One,” he said, without rancor. “I am an assassin, but without the holy cause of a veiled-one. I have committed many evils in my life. Whatever judgment is to come, I will not be excluded. I seek only to protect this lady beside me, to defend her against other men of my ilk. Perhaps, if I do not sway, my soul will be led someday to redemption.”
“But you,” spoke the ageless boy, Pandion, “you possess the power of self without self. No-self. Touched by Anshar, Touched. One gift He gave, one only, to a woman beloved.” The boy closed his eyes and began rocking back and forth, humming softly to himself.
Arturo glanced at Isidora and saw with some relief that she appeared as bemused as he. “What is he talking about?” he asked.
The crone laid a hand gently on Pandion’s shoulder, gazing with sympathy upon his keening. “He speaks of a reality even I, who possess the gifts of dreams and destiny, can hardly understand. He is the only being, save the Gods—though They have not walked the earth since the end of the Second Age—who may pass to and from Beyond.”
“Who is he, exactly?” asked Isidora.
They were told, then, of the Child of Time, and had no choice but to believe, even Arturo, for sometime in the eternal dawn he had lost all resistance of intellect and ego. After, they sat quietly, Pandion’s wordless song fading, and the mist began to clear.
It was a dazzlingly clear northern morning, sunlight streaming down the hillside, through branches finally showing the first buds of spring. Arturo stood, wincing at muscles made sore from long disuse, and helped Isidora arise. Her fingers lingered in his, or perhaps his stayed overlong in hers, but they felt the same hesitance to leave the gentle dawn just passed.
The sounds of twigs snapping beneath heavy feet sundered their last ties with the morning, and presently Diego and Hadrian appeared at the base of the hillside, looking up against the bright sunlight.
“Anshar’s balls, Bellamont, where have you two been!” Diego shouted, his voice strained with fear and relief.
The warmth of Isidora’s hand left his as she stepped lightly down the hill, joining Hadrian. Arturo watched them a moment, feeling a strangeness at the sight of them together, two servants of sibling Gods, before following.
Diego sprung forward the moment he neared, embracing him fiercely. “Gods, man, we’ve been searching for a day. I thought you were lost.” He stepped back, scanning his face. “Why do you look that way? What’s happened? Where on earth have you been?”
Arturo turned, his movements sluggish with shock, to meet Isidora’s wide eyes. Together they pivoted, looking back and upward, and where there had been a massive tree was nothing, and no crone sat before it, nor was there any sign of a boy.
“Where is the crone?” he asked.
Diego and Hadrian exchanged a worried glance. “What crone?” asked Hadrian.
“Last night,” Isidora began, but halted, frowning. “Two nights, then? Do you not remember the crone and the boy?” Diego shook his head in bafflement. “Your bow snapped in half, Ignacio was felled without weapon, and there was light…” She trailed off, turning her gaze to Arturo. “You remember?”
He nodded, silencing her with his eyes, and looked at Diego. “After Isidora told us that her powers had returned, what happened?” he asked.
Diego, still scowling, said, “Nothing.”
Hadrian nodded agreement. “My father had had a dream, and awoken from it, and we spoke briefly of Dunak. In time we bedded down again and slept, only to awaken and find you and the Lady Fiannan gone without trace.”
“What’s going on, brother?” Diego asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Arturo replied, thinking of magic, and forces he’d reckoned false all his life.
He thought of the canteen that had overflowed in the desert, and of the amulet flashing bright across the quay in L’Sere. Without knowing he did so, he echoed the Nameless’ words, “It seems we are a part of a much greater design than we thought.” He would have continued, spoken of what he and Isidora had experienced, but into the quiet morning rose a piercing scream.
Serephina.
“Stay with Isidora,” he rasped to Hadrian, even as he pulled two knives from their sheaths at his belt and was running, Diego at his side, branches whipping against their shoulders and faces. As they neared the small clearing where they’d made camp, they heard Ignacio’s voice raised in a shout, and a man’s voice answering, soft
and commanding.
They slowed and moved cautiously, keeping behind the trees. Diego held up seven fingers, the number of men in the woods beyond the clearing, and touched his sword to mark they were armed. Arturo braced his back against a tree, his fingers humming, the knives trembling for release.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blur of movement. Golden hair, dark clothing. His stomach seized in an incredible spasm of fear and he reached out, futilely, forgetting the knife in his hand. The blade caught on the fabric of Isidora’s light cloak, snagging it but not halting her momentum. She ran through the trees and the branches did not touch her, and he remembered her descriptions of the Gardens of Almhain, and the lush, thick forests of Alesia where she’d been reared.
With astonishing speed and fleetness of foot, the Lady of Alesia slipped between two of the armed men and into the center of the clearing, where Serephina, Ignacio, Lucero, and the Alesians were being held at sword-point. She stopped so abruptly that her cloak swirled around her shoulders, and any reaction the bandits might have made was halted as she raised her hands.
Arturo blinked, and blinked again, and finally realized that what he was seeing, what they all were seeing, was something no one Calabrian-bred had witnessed for centuries. The magic of Alesia, of the truest of all bloodlines who had kept faith with the Gods and been gifted with power over the land’s elementals.
From the palms of Isidora’s hands rose columns of flame, a foot high, blue-white weapons that hungrily licked the air. Her curls moved in an unfelt wind, stirring around her face. Her eyes brimmed with power, pupils condensed so that the blue shone radiant forth, circling like sunlit whirlpools.
Great Gods have mercy, Arturo thought, hoping that somewhat of the Isidora he knew existed within the sorceress before them, for Isidora would not wish to wield that flame against living flesh.
“Who among you will answer for this offense?” she asked, and her voice was riding the currents of power, borne upon it so that her words rung like bells in the clearing.
The Gardens of Almhain Page 20