Hadrian cleared his throat. “I have already begun the telling,” he said, and she looked up sharply, remembering the journey north, and the notebook Hadrian scribbled in every evening. She’d thought it a private journal; in a way, it was true.
“Already the fall of Alesia is recorded,” he told her. “Tomorrow I will meet with Julio and inquire as to a scribe who might copy my words, for storing here, in Damáskenos.”
Eyes welling with tears, Isidora touched his arm, saying, “Thank you, Hadrian.”
His sympathetic gaze met hers; surprising her, he bowed over her hand, grazing his lips across it. “I am your servant, my lady.”
When he straightened, there was more revealed in his eyes than he knew. For a moment, a brief, fleeting moment, Isidora imagined herself in Hadrian’s arms, his compassion enveloping her. She was very tired, and heartsick again, and when she imagined relief, it was not Hadrian who offered it, but the visage of Arturo Bellamont.
Later, she lay awake in her bed, thinking that it was much more than stone that separated her from Arturo, whose room lay adjacent to hers. She thought, too, of her mother, and of Armando de la Caville, but in the shadow of them was her father, and she felt the tears come silently from her eyes, sliding onto her pillow even as her mind slid into sleep.
Chapter Twenty-five
Arturo tasted the crisp morning air on his tongue and was touched by longing for his distant southern home. Though the high, northern valley he stood in was stubbornly holding its springtime chill, the southern air would be warm now, the orange trees in full bloom. The modest farm run by his parents would be undertaking the familiar seasonal chores. Preparations for the spring harvest festival would be underway; perhaps his mother waited to aid in the birth of fowls. His father and brothers were surely breaking in a young colt or two; the younger children would be escaping household duties for lazy afternoons of shore fishing and swimming.
It was not often that Arturo succumbed to nostalgia, but there was a quality to Damáskenos that reminded him of home. The boisterous, bustling hall where he’d broken his fast at sunup, the familiar smells and noises of a well-run stable as he saddled his stallion for a ride.
The most pointed reminder of all, however, was the lack of pretense in the people here. The citizens of Damáskenos lived mostly in tightly packed, multi-tiered houses clustered about the castle like flowers at the base of a tree, bright awnings shading porches and plants, laundry hung between narrow balconies. Children ran through safe streets, the women sung and laughed, sharing gossip from porch to porch with their men gone to the fields or into the castle for duties.
It was clear that most had never heard of Black Bellamont, and even those who knew his name—Rodrigo’s men, Alvar’s strange honor guard—treated him no different than they would any guest of the duke.
The thought made him smile, lift his face to the sun and breathe deeply, savoring anonymity. Here, he felt he could be exactly who he was. No legend, no past, just a traveler passing through this northern province, a man riding a fine beast through the dawning day. As the echo of life from Damáskenos receded behind him, he denied the past and future both, content for these moments, this easy morning.
He saw her then, walking before him, alone on the road that wound through pastures, angled downward toward the bordering woods. Her hair was free and curling down her back, blazing bright gold in the sunlight.
Shirking the drab clothing essential to travel, she’d donned a gown of purest white, slit in the front and back to reveal warm, fawn colored leggings. Her bare arms were draped with the sash he’d retrieved from Elazar’s wife and had restored. The tiny threads of gold shimmered, like her skin, like her hair.
As the sound of his horse’s approach reached her, she stepped delicately from the road to give him passage. Instead, Arturo drew to a halt, waited for her to turn. She did, lifting a hand to shade her eyes. Her smile, or the sunlight on his head, made him momentarily dizzy.
“Arturo, good morning,” she said.
He tapped his heels gently to the stallion’s hide and the beast pranced forward. As they neared her, the stallion huffed and strained forward to chomp on her hair. She laughed, batting questing lips from her face as she lifted one hand to stroke the shining neck, close to Arturo’s own fingers.
Battling the urge to demand she return immediately to the safety of the castle, Arturo gave into an equally potent urge. “Care for a ride?” he asked.
He couldn’t see her eyes clearly, but her lips quirked. “I would love one,” she said, offering him her hand. As if she’d done it a thousand times before, she gripped his fingers, touched her foot atop his in the stirrup, and swung up gracefully behind him.
For a moment, the sweetest, briefest time, she fell flush against his back. Then she found purchase on the saddle and sat back, balancing her feet just behind his. With a twitch of the reigns in his fingers, the stallion moved into easy, rocking steps.
The road before them began to turn southwest, through fenced pastures and tilled farmland, toward the distant, jagged hills. Arturo eased the stallion away from the road, west onto the softer purchase of a grassy field.
Before them, some thirty yards away, was the forest line. It was an old wood, its guardians rivaling the height of the fortress’ walls, its interior thick and shadowed. Though sunlight banished its inherently forbidding aspect, Arturo thought it likely the children of Damáskenos often called upon its wildness to frighten one another in the night.
Isidora murmured, “I like it here.” Her words were soft, little more than breath near his ear. “The land feels… right.”
He nodded agreement. “The land reflects the people who walk upon it.”
“Did you learn that in Dunak?” she asked softly, hesitantly.
“Yes,” he said, quite easily, the words as simple and freeing as the sunlight, the breeze, the woman behind him. He could feel her curiosity and so said, “Is there something you would ask me, my lady?”
She was silent a moment, then, “You told the crone you didn’t join the land-bond of the tribe because of fear…” She halted in uncertainty.
“You are wondering what I was afraid of.”
“Yes.”
They were nearing the border of the forest. The reigns were slack in his hands as the stallion passed the first trees, into dappled sunlight and the music of the woods. Leaves rustled in a soothing tempo; above them, birds sung greetings to the day.
Despite the idyllic setting and ease of the morning, Isidora could not help but notice that her words had tensed Arturo’s shoulders. Helpless, she watched the gulf widen again between them. The sensitive stallion reacted to his riders’ agitation, falling into a clipped, heavy pace, startling a family of rabbits from a bush as he crunched the undergrowth.
“I’m sorry,” she offered weakly.
Arturo made a short noise of humor, forced himself to relax. The stallion stepped more lightly, instincts honed by mountain breeding guiding him gently through the forest. “It is I who am sorry, my lady,” he said at length. “It is not easy, for me, to look into the past.”
“I understand, Arturo.”
If she were deeply honest, some part of her, from the moment she’d first seen him, had understood all too well the shadows in his eyes. It was one of the reasons she desired him near. He knew what it was to grieve, to survive when all he loved seemed lost.
The admittance brought a sudden, sparkling clarity to the moment. Her senses, enhanced by the reborn powers in her blood, opened wide like a flower touched by light. She could feel the heat of his body, see the slide of muscles in his back with each movement of the horse beneath them.
It was agonizing, the closeness, the separation.
What makes a woman a fool, papa?
Love.
Her feelings for Arturo de Galván were helpless and astounding, growing brighter with each pa
ssing day even as she tried to vanquish them. With the burning of Alesia, her heart had been set adrift, directionless, and had come to rest against this man.
With effort, she summoned memory of that first night in Vianalon, of the moonless vigil as she had waited for him to return from the company of the princess, the mingled desire and pain of standing in his arms and smelling the scent of another woman. And the morning prior, the keen, compassionate knowing in Elena’s eyes as the woman had told her Bellamont was no common man. She brought back, too, forcefully, the horror she had seen in his eyes when she was Touched.
Presently, Arturo looked over his shoulder at her. He might have spoken, asked a question, and turned when she did not reply. His eyes were without guile, so very dark and warm, like amber reflecting flame and shadow in equal measure. Caught in the rise of emotion she’d kept closeted for months, her wide, anguished eyes met his.
“My lady? What is it?” he asked sharply, gaze darting past her and forward, scanning the forest for what had alarmed her.
Isidora held a hand to her face, covering her eyes. She felt the slowing of movement beneath her as Arturo drew the horse to a halt. “Nothing, I’m well,” she mumbled.
“You are not well,” he said roughly, jumping to the ground.
His hands caught her waist and lifted her free of the saddle, setting her on her feet. Long, graceful fingers were still slanted over her face, hiding her eyes. He could still see them in his mind, though, the deep, despairing look that had seared through his gut like a blade.
With more force than he intended, he pulled her hand away, forcing her chin up. She drew a shaking breath and asked without thought, “Why do you fear magic so?”
His grip loosened minutely though his dark gaze did not break from hers. She had never felt so focused upon, wished to believe that in that focus was meaning, feeling beyond an oath he’d sworn to protect her life.
“Why?” she repeated, the question different, though she could not form the words for it.
“Because I cannot explain it,” he said, and his eyes closed briefly before opening again, focusing again. “I have only, ever, relied on what I can see and touch.” He paused, and his hand dropped from her chin to her shoulder, resting there, heavy and warm. “I have experienced too much to have faith, Isidora. And though I’ve witnessed magic since meeting you, it is too closely tied to faith for my comfort.”
His words saddened her, though there was no pain in the sorrow. She could not bring Alesia back to life, but she carried its legacy and could offer it into the world, gently and with hope in her heart.
Slowly, subtly, employing skills taught over many years, Isidora summoned wind. Leaves rose from the ground, born up on the unnatural drafts to swirl around their shoulders. She sent several small leaves dancing over his hand and his eyes widened, fingers digging into her skin.
“There is nothing to fear here,” she whispered. There was so much emotion inside her she could not contain it any longer, and her eyes grew blurred with tears. She heated the wind with strands of fire and embraced him in warm, phantom arms.
“Isidora, I need—” His throat tightened as he fought the maelstrom of wanting, of desire kept too long at bay. He was cocooned by bands of tingling warmth that he somehow knew was magic—unnatural, inexplicable—and still he felt no revulsion or fear. Only want, so much that he burned with it, bones humming, skin too tight, his chest compressed so that his heart beat feverishly, madly.
“God,” he choked, as a great tremor ran through him, followed by heat and blinding, searing pain.
He is not ready, child of Istar, rumbled a voice, coming from all around them, invading his mind like a great bolt of flame.
Arturo felt his knees buckle, knew he fell but did not feel the impact. Dimly, he was aware that the magic Isidora had wrought with the air had vanished, and the breeze against his face was just that and nothing more.
Slowly, his mind reassembled itself and he blinked, looking up at the woman laying almost atop him, head pressed to his chest, golden hair splayed across his torso and neck. He tried to move his arms, to hold her, but his limbs would not respond.
Speech was just as difficult, but after several attempts, he whispered, “What was that?”
Isidora lifted her head, showing him a face streaked with tears. “Shenlith, the Serpent of the Root,” she said tremulously.
“What did he mean?” he asked, but forgot the question almost as soon as it was spoken.
The feeling was returning to his body with a sharp tingling. He raised his head and wished he hadn’t as it began to pound. Groaning, he turned his face to the soft ground and saw the stallion standing nearby, grazing contentedly. The beast lifted his head, blinked lazily at him, and returned his mouth to the grass.
“Arturo?” Isidora asked.
He reacted sluggishly, turning his head, but in the instant their eyes met, his body regained complete awareness. Primarily sensitized were the areas she pressed against. “My lady, you must rise,” he said, but was too slow in speaking, for comprehension dawned suddenly in her eyes, and wonder, which only kindled him further.
Their hearts beat so fast it sounded like thunder in their ears.
The stallion lifted his head with a snort, ears cocked. He stamped the ground in the direction of his rider, softly at first and then again, more urgently. When there was no response, he bunched his powerful legs and reared, then slammed his hooves into the ground just inches from the man’s head.
Arturo felt the impact against the earth in the same instant he realized that the thunder was not his heart, but the far-off rumble of many horses galloping. He grabbed Isidora by the arms, hauling her to her feet as he leapt to his.
“What is that?” Isidora gasped.
Even if they mounted now and rose straight for the bridge, they would be easy prey for an archer as they crossed the open meadow. That is, if it was a regiment of the army of the Church, or an enemy uncounted for. If it was an enemy at all, and not men loyal to the duke.
There was too much he didn’t know.
He whipped around to face Isidora. “Can you use your power to see who approaches? Does the bloodline of Alesia carry such skill?”
“I—I’ve never done such a thing,” she stammered.
“Try,” he demanded.
Sensing his sudden fear, which kindled her own, she cried, Shenlith, help me!
For a moment there was nothing, and she despaired. Then the Drakon’s ancient, faintly irritated voice asking, What do you require, child of Issstar?
I have no bond to the land, she moaned. Help us, tell us who comes to Damáskenos, friend or foe?
“Isidora!” Arturo snapped.
There was silence in her mind, then she gasped as between one moment and the next, her blood ran fast through her veins. Though her vision of the forest didn’t dim, she saw suddenly through Shenlith’s eyes, or perhaps he merely allowed her a glimpse of his mind.
The mighty serpent gathered his will and spun it outward from the Taproot, the dizzying distance taking only one blink of her eyes. Her body jerked suddenly as the ancient mind reached Damáskenos and tore upward in a blinding arch, exploding just beneath the land’s surface.
Isidora gasped and would have fallen if Arturo were not supporting her arms. “What’s happening?” he asked tensely. Then, in a whisper, “Holy God.”
FLEE! roared Shenlith a moment later, and the flame of his voice scorched her mind, shocking her muscles into action. She saw the shadow of men and horses breeching the border of the woods.
Panic shortened her breath. “Go, Arturo, now!” she cried, shoving him toward the horse. He was already swinging into the saddle, but when he would have pulled her before him, she wrenched her arm away.
“Isidora!” he yelled, reaching for her.
She shook her head, eyes wild, irises already spinning, pupils c
ondensing. With a strangled cry of helpless fury, she flung her fingers toward the horse. Lightning arched from her palm, blazing brilliant blue, and seared the stallion’s flank. Though the shock was superficial, the beast screamed and bolted into the forest.
“Live, Arturo,” she whispered, watching the horse’s flight until they were gone.
The thunder of hooves was so near she could feel the vibration through her feet. What had been a wide, weaving shadow darkening the forest a mere minute before now separated, gaining distinct forms. There were at least fifty soldiers of the Church riding for her, led by a man veiled in black.
Isidora faced them and knelt, hands clasped in her lap, mind empty of all thought. Even Shenlith’s voice had faded to a dull, indecipherable echo of anxiety. She did not wish to perish by sword, and though the power was hers, she could not enact a slaughter.
Despite all the rage of her parent’s death, of her people’s fiery end, she was Lady of Alesia, and would not extend power to kill, only to defend.
Closing her eyes, she reached, sending her consciousness as Shenlith had done, outward from the epicenter of her body, across Tanalon. She sent the information to any and all who would hear, for she knew why the ancient Drakon had told her to flee; knew now the greatest weapon possessed by the enemy.
It was not the man swathed in black who led the soldiers, though he was darkness through and through, but the small figure lashed to the saddle behind him. A child with no eyes, in whose blood was power of incredible potential, a tiny spark of pure beginnings perceivable beneath a lifetime of perversions and torment.
Her mother’s voice, the faint, fading words, Do not stop, ever, or what hunts us now will follow you, to finish what has begun.
“I cannot run anymore,” she whispered.
Carefully, she lifted her hands and pressed palm to palm, feeling rather than seeing the blinding magic resulting from the connection. Her last thought before lowering her hands to the ground was unexpected, even to her: not a prayer of safekeeping to Istar or even Anshar, but a request of the land. Protect me, Calabria. And the land answered.
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