The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  “Why do good men commit atrocities? There is no answer for that, either, though the philosophers may argue through days and nights. Myself, I have searched, and found no answer. It does not matter now. It is a thing for others to speculate on. It is my wish, princess, to see that the histories do not tell of the fall of Tanalon, and the end of House Caville. It was your father’s wish, as well, which he detailed by letter. It was that missive which brought me storming into Vianalon so many years ago.

  “He asked for my oath, the greatest of oaths, that upon his death I would commit myself to seeing a child of his blood upon the throne. He was clever, your father, so dreadfully clever. He knew, even then, the evil nesting in the heart of Tanalon’s Church. He anticipated the rising up of Borgetza, of Argenta.

  “He knew that war was coming, a backlash of his own crimes against the country. He asked that I allow his child, his heir, to have a chance to make right the wrongs he’d committed and restore the name of his House. He asked, Serephina, if I would use all my worldly skill to build an army behind you.”

  She had spoken, then, words that welled from an aching place inside. The duke had been silent for some moments, then nodded and said yes, he had kept his word.

  Lying atop her bed, Serephina tilted her head toward the windows to watch the first gray light of dawn touch the sky. She shivered, remembering.

  Ezekiel ibn Dukari, eldest son of the late king of Dunak, was even now leading an army of veiled-ones through the desert, bound for the mighty Kilcaran mountains and thereby, Tanalon. The traveling would be hard, the passes still carrying snow. It would take them several weeks to overcome the treacherous range, and another week to reach Damáskenos.

  Serephina wondered if Bellamont had known of this, the last of Armando’s great machinations. She did not think so, for a person would have to be very wise, indeed, to have formed a connection her father had shared with only one man. That man being the most controversial figure of Tanalon’s nobility, who’d publicly denounced his king and removed all traces of himself from courtly life, who’d built a world of his own in the mountains.

  Who, alone of them all, had kept love in his heart for Armando de la Caville.

  They will come, her father had written to Damáskenos, so long ago, in his inscrutable way. The veiled-ones will come because it will be written in the stars for them to read. When the time arrives, send word.

  When a courier had staggered into castle Damáskenos on the eve of Armando’s death, a sealed letter written years before had left its walls the following dawn. Bound east, far east, for the Oasis of Dunak.

  Just this day, the duke told her, just hours before their own arrival, a man of his own guard had come forward and revealed himself desert-born and land-bound. The veiled-one had offered him a slip of parchment, which the duke in turn offered to Serephina, and she took it in cold fingers, unfolded it to read by the flickering light.

  We come, ten thousand strong, behind Ezekiel ibn Dukari, true king of Dunak. For good or ill, we come to the defense of Serephina de la Caville, true queen of Tanalon.

  She fell asleep just after dawn, wondering, and unable to fathom why. When she dreamed, it was of a river running against nature. Only the waters were thousands of veiled-ones, winding like a river of pitch across rolling red dunes.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The evening of their arrival, after sharing a meal in Damáskenos’ large, bustling dining hall, Isidora felt certain she had never been more fatigued in her life. Her eyelids felt heavy, her stomach drugged by several courses of delicious fare and a mug too many of sweet mead.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult to follow the conversation flowing between the gregarious Duke Alvar and Arturo Bellamont. The Princess Serephina had already escaped, claiming in her soft, eloquent voice that she wished solitude and rest. Ignacio had retired shortly thereafter, as had Diego and Edan.

  Seated across from her, Finnéces’ was nursing a cup of mead, eyes closed and head swinging in time to a lute’s light-hearted melody. Watching him, the slight, unreserved smile on his beloved face, Isidora felt her heart warm.

  The long, stressful journey north was finally, for the present, done. For the first time since Alesia’s fall, she felt somewhat like her younger, more carefree self. Her growing sense of safety and ease had as much to do with heavy walls and a steep moat between her and the High Cleric as it did with the return of her magic and the Nameless’ long tale.

  She had not felt the presence of the Serpent Shenlith since he had awakened her elemental powers, but it was the lingering sense of his touch, too, that calmed the anxiety she’d felt since stepping foot on Calabria. As she thought of the Drakon, and the knowledge granted both through him and his human descendant, the Nameless, Isidora found her gaze falling upon the blind Scholar.

  Lucero enjoyed his meal with the help of his son, relying on Hadrian’s soft-spoken observations to fill the void of sightlessness. Seated side by side, illumined by the generous light in the hall, she saw clearly the resemblance between them. It was easy to imagine Lucero young as Hadrian was, his white hair dark, his face unlined, eyes sparkling with intelligence.

  Looking at the thin, concealing white band stretched across his empty sockets, she saw no deformity; instead, she saw the heart within him, whole in purpose and will, beating firmly, gentle and kind as the man.

  Knowing what she felt resonated with more clarity and strength than would a mere fancy, she wondered if Shenlith had given her back more than she’d lost. It was like being Touched, this feeling, only without the violent explosions of image and foreign thought.

  Curious, she let her gaze travel to Arturo. For a moment she watched him, not exerting or questing, but simply watching. His features were animated as he conversed with the duke, his focus intent as he extracted information and gave back in turn. They made a strange pair, the two men, one aging and portly with a convivial air, the other in his prime, tall and strong, with more subdued, relaxed manner. As she focused on them together, however, they radiated similar veins of power. Mortal power, that of the mind and wit, and entwined in both were darker currents, testaments to lives with much hardship.

  Isidora tried to narrow her focus on Arturo, to seek within him alone, but found she could not. The harder she tried, the more aware she became of herself—aching muscles, itching eyes, a persistent urge to yawn.

  “My lady,” spoke Hadrian, breaking the last of her concentration, “May I escort you to your room?”

  She smiled, a trifle guiltily. “I confess I’m quite tired.”

  From the head of the table came an aggrieved voice, “Lady Fiannan, you cannot retire yet!” proclaimed the Duke of Damáskenos, “The night has just begun! They’ll be dancing and music here in the hall, and I’ve yet to give you a tour of the library.”

  Arturo, seeing her startled, slightly dismayed expression, gave her a sympathetic smile and murmured, “Perhaps a tour can wait for tomorrow, my lord?”

  “Nay!” exclaimed the duke, darting to his feet, a grin splitting his round face. “Dancing, mayhap, but not a tour.” Rounding the table, he reached for her hand. “Come, come, all of you. Let me do you this honor without further suspense.”

  “I’m of the mind to enjoy more of your talented musicians,” Arturo said. Isidora had never seen the smile he wore; it was one without prescience, wide and genuine. He glanced at the man seated beside him, eyes still closed, head still swaying. “Finnéces and I should like to stay, my lord.”

  Alvar bobbed his head. “Very well. Come, then, scholars, clerics and foreign ladies!”

  Lucero, wearing a slight smile, was aided to his feet by Hadrian. They joined Isidora and the duke at the entrance to the hall. The cleric met her eyes briefly, his own mirroring her puzzlement.

  The duke chatted happily as he lead them through the fortress, down several flights of stairs, through long hallways, and down more
stairs. Initially they passed many servants and residents, guards and squires, all of who bowed to their liege. The further they walked, the fewer souls they saw until it was them alone.

  Though she tried hard to retain the endless flow of information Duke Alvar offered, on the geography of Damáskenos, on its founding and first family, her attention was focused on the wide stone passageways, the walls bare but for torches, the floors immaculately swept and scented in corners by urns of dried herbs.

  The duke noticed her inquisitive gaze, halting his litany to say, “The keep was built by my great-great grandfather during a period of Calabria’s history fraught with war. It was constructed primarily for defense, thus the antique moat and drawbridge. We are beneath ground level now, but above, the lowest stories have no windows, no curving corridors or stairs to aid an enemy if the walls were breached.”

  “Fascinating,” murmured Hadrian.

  Duke Alvar made a noise of agreement. In a surprisingly sober tone, he said, “Indeed, Damáskenos is the last of its kind. Once, every lord in Tanalon boasted similar strongholds. But with the spread of populations and formation of the army of the Church over the last generations, the Noble Houses have become soft, preferring pleasing forms for their estates rather than defensive architecture.”

  “And you, my lord?” asked the Scholar in a low voice.

  Alvar was silent a moment, then spoke without turning, “I am too well versed in the past to retain optimism for a peaceful future.”

  Isidora, deciding that she was not very tired after all, stared thoughtfully at the back of the duke’s head. His words were familiar, and she remembered the banquet hall, the similarities she’d visualized between Duke Damáskenos and Arturo Bellamont. Whether exhaustion or honeyed mead was the cause, it was suddenly too much to think about, so she chose not to think at all, on any of it.

  The duke halted at last, and when he turned to face them he was smiling again. She was glad for it, and smiled in return. “Well,” he said grandly, “here we are!”

  They stood before an arched doorway, modest in size and without embellishment. The duke pressed his fist to the door and pushed, the heavy wood rotating on well oiled hinges. Light spilled into the corridor, a warm golden glow, reminding Isidora of the passageway beneath Vianalon, and the door Hadrian had opened in a similar way, granting them access to the Vault des Viana.

  At the Duke’s gesture of invitation, they followed him within. For close to a minute, as Alvar greeted the library’s ancient steward, the three of them stood still, framed by the shadow of the doorway.

  Around them rose a vast underground chamber, easily three stories in height and with a depth of more than a hundred yards, partitioned loosely into three rooms by shelving units easily four times as tall as a man. Ladders were spaced randomly throughout, hinged to a railing suspended near the top of the shelves, braced by a narrow groove which ran the length of the floor.

  Someone cleared their throat softly and Isidora looked down, seeing that she had missed the Duke’s departure. The small, bent-back man who was obviously keeper of the library smiled brightly when she looked at him, displaying crooked teeth and childlike pleasure. Despite his age, his eyes were dark and clear, framed by the wrinkles of a lifetime of squinting at words.

  “It is so wonderful to have you here,” he said in a soft, quavering voice, and she could not help but smile back at him, realizing how rare visitors must be. “I am Julio, keeper of this library.”

  “We are honored,” Hadrian said, bowing his head.

  “Julio Morino?” Lucero questioned lightly, turning his head toward their voices.

  Julio’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. “Why… yes. How do you know me, sir?”

  “We entered the Academe des Viana together. You don’t recognize the only man who could challenge your cataloging record of a hundred volumes in six minutes?”

  The small steward looked perplexed, then astounded. Finally, his eyes widened. “Lucero?” he whispered. His dark eyes traveled from the band of blindness to the broken hands clasped above the Scholar’s chest. “Dear Gods,” he said, flinching. “I’m sorry, I had heard… I’m sorry.” His eyes filled with tears, understanding perhaps better than anyone what the deformity would mean to a Scholar.

  Lucero moved carefully, a hand lifting to pat the steward awkwardly on the shoulder. “No need for that, Julio,” he said gently. “It is good to hear you again.”

  Julio laughed, sniffled, and wiped his eyes roughly with his sleeve. “Indeed,” he said, clasping Lucero’s shoulders before taking his arm. “Come, I will talk until I am hoarse to describe to you the grandeur of Damáskenos’ library.” The men walked slowly forward, heads bent together. Isidora and Hadrian followed, listening.

  “When Alvar inherited Damáskenos, one of the first things he did was have this chamber expanded, ventilation shafts installed, its walls and ceiling reinforced with beams. You’ll remember my sudden departure from Vianalon? The Duke had heard of my cataloging and conservation genius.” He chuckled softly. “Little did I know that I would learn manual labor and construction skills. There are over a thousand shelves around us, separated by divisions into three rooms.”

  “What is the significance of having three rooms?” Lucero questioned.

  Julio’s voice became softly reverent, “The first room is named Present, Past is the middle, and the last, of course, is Ancient. The shelves of this first, largest room, are not quite filled with scrolls and bound volumes of art and text. We are now walking by various tables and workspaces, which dominate the area.”

  Isidora and Hadrian glanced at each other, then at the tables, upon which sat groupings of thick wax candles in glass orbs. Atop each desk rested implements of the craft, quills and ink, canvas cured from animal hides and thinner, more delicate parchments.

  For remembering.

  Looking at the blank pages, Isidora drew a shaky breath. Hadrian was watching her closely, a peculiar expression in his eyes. As Julio led Lucero further into the library, the two of them stayed still, standing close together by one of the tables.

  After some time, in which Isidora fought to breathe evenly, Hadrian touched her arm, his fingers warm and gentle on her skin. She looked up into his hazel eyes and he stared down at her, his features tight with emotion.

  “My lady,” he murmured. “It was I who heard your call.”

  Nearby, Julio was laughing softly at something Lucero said. The two men paused at the threshold of the second room, and then entered the Past.

  She wondered if fatigue was dampening any surprise she might have felt. “You are the messenger my mother spoke of,” she stated.

  Hadrian nodded stiffly. “When your parents came to Vianalon, on their last day in the city they took a tour of the Church. I was the acolyte picked to be their guide. Your mother…” He swallowed, blinked hard. “Your father had walked ahead, and your mother, Gwendolyn, took my hand, drawing me into an alcove. She gave me this.”

  He lifted his right hand, showing her the ring on his third finger. The golden band was thick, engraved with tiny, indecipherable lettering.

  “May I?” she asked weakly.

  He nodded, slipping the ring from his finger and offering it. The residue of power within it had long since faded, but there was just enough echo left for her to sense the initial ritual. She would have known the taste of her mother’s mind anywhere, no matter how faint.

  Tears filled her eyes and she closed her fingers around the ring, wishing above all else that she could hear her mother’s voice again. “What did she say to you?” she whispered.

  “She said it was a gift from Alesia, and to wear it would bring her great honor.” He glanced at the ring she held. “Obviously there was more purpose to it than that. I have never taken it off, since that day. There was something about the way she spoke, an urgency in her eyes, that stalled me every time I thought to
remove it.”

  “How did she know?” Isidora asked, frowning. “How could she have known that Alesia would fall, that I would come to Calabria and send that call? How did she know that you would be friend and not foe?”

  Hadrian shrugged, eyes troubled. “Perhaps she did not, and was merely preparing for the awful possibility,” he replied. “I know only that when you sent the message, I was occupied with my morning meditation. I heard your words like my head was a bell and each syllable a hammer. I was living in Cartenía, the port city where the Viana spills into the South Sea. It was a long journey upriver, so that I arrived in Vianalon mere days before you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “to have torn you away from your life.”

  He smiled with real mirth. “Do you know, when you summoned me, I felt that I had been waiting my entire life for that moment? I rode to Vianalon absolutely certain that the capital was where I needed to be, with absolutely no proof but for a voice in my head.”

  Caught by his humor, Isidora smiled a little. “Did you think yourself mad?”

  He chuckled. “Once or twice, yes. Then I saw you in the palace, and you were Touched by the Gods, and I was sure that grace had led your mother to give me that ring, had guided me all my life.” He gestured idly. “The Church does not recognize the possibility of communion with the God without a priestly intercessor. I have seen proof to the contrary, here, in the north of Tanalon, and have witnessed mystics—descendants of Alesia—performing their magics. I have seen someone Touched read the hearts and minds of men, and have felt the presence of Anshar in them. Now, since meeting you, I have felt the presence of Istar as well.”

  The voices of Julio and Lucero could be heard again as they moved out of the Ancient and reentered the Past. Isidora bowed her head, “So it is you, a cleric of the God, who will tell my story.”