The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  Several soldiers had outflanked their leader, striving to be the first to reach her. When their straining horses met with the invisible barrier, their necks snapped instantly, powerful, compact bodies crumpling like puppets. The impact was so sudden, so violent, that both riders flew from their saddles and together they slammed against the barrier.

  To the men behind them, who even now threw all their strength into pulling to a stop, it seemed that those unfortunate firsts hung suspended for a moment, limbs akimbo, before sliding to the ground in a most unnatural manner.

  One man could not control his horse in time, and the beast came against the barrier with a scream, which was cut off abruptly. The rider managed to throw himself from the saddle before he, too, met the wall.

  In seconds the party had ground to a halt, horses swarming in distress. Men’s voices called out clipped commands, their bodies arched and stiff in effort to control the beasts. Only one horse stood still in the chaos; it was a stillness forced by magic, for the animal’s eyes showed white around the edges and his front legs quivered visibly, mere inches from the now-shimmering wall.

  Isidora watched, numbed and awed by the land’s protection, as the foremost rider dismounted gracefully. She had never seen a true veiled-one, and the effect of the swirling robes, the headdress in which only eyes were visible within dark whorls, was stunning and frightening. She was at once grateful that her will was not linked to the protective barrier, for it would have surely faltered.

  The man moved with a grace that reminded her of Arturo, though this figure was shorter and very slim. He moved near to the wall, lifting a bare, bronzed hand as if to touch it. He hesitated, but there was no fear in him, only curiosity.

  Black eyes focused on her and his voice as he spoke was raspy, as though he rarely used it. “Lower the wall, my lady,” he said, and the words were without civility, the title of lady twisted by his tongue.

  Isidora felt an odd calmness as she shook her head in denial. She considered what it might be like to awaken now in her bed, to find the morning had been a dream, first beautiful with hope, then a nightmare of fears.

  Behind the veiled-one, a soft voice spoke, “You must persuade her, Ummon. Our time is limited.”

  “Do something, then,” growled Ummon.

  The boy shook his head and spoke again in that too-calm voice, “This power is of no origin I know. I cannot disassemble it.”

  Isidora could not help but look at the face of the boy, maimed and sightless. Though sharing blindness, so different was his deformity from Lucero’s that she could imagine the Scholar’s eyes had been removed with care. From the deep, long-healed scarring radiating from the boy’s empty sockets, it was clear whoever had performed the travesty had intended agony.

  Ummon’s gaze remained level on Isidora. “Lower the wall and you will not be harmed,” he said.

  She shook her head again, voice steady as she replied, “I will not do as you ask.”

  Ummon lifted a hand in unspoken command and a handful of riders launched from the main group, galloping south and north. Minutes stretched by with dreamlike fluidity, Isidora sitting alone in the glade of dappled sunlight while dozens of anxious, armed men gathered just ten feet away. She did not know how far the wall stretched or the longevity of its life; curiously, with the unknowing came a deeper level of serenity.

  She had done all she could, and it would either be enough or it would not.

  There was shouting from the last of Ummon’s ranks. The riders dispatched to the north were returning at full gallop, had almost reached the last line of men when they fell, melting from their horses’ backs.

  All at once there was chaos as the Church soldiers tore free their swords. Arrows whistled through the forest, most hitting marks in arms, chests, and necks. The air was filled with the cries of battle and pain.

  Ummon leapt for his horse and was astride in moments, the boy’s arms coming tightly around his middle. The horse reared as the veiled-one yanked the reigns. Isidora saw the flash of his eyes upon her, and the dark promise within them, before the horse sprinted south, flanked by other riders. The small group disappeared quickly into the thicket and was not followed by Damáskenos’ guardsmen, who even now rode through the enemy, driving them down with their superior numbers and skill.

  Rodrigo Vasquez was at their head, roaring animalistic challenge and leaving carnage in his wake. Around him fanned Duke Alvar’s personal guard. The giant, ebon-skinned men sung in low, ritualistic harmony as they killed with their curved swords and spears.

  Isidora could not watch but could not close her eyes. The blissful, fearless void came crashing down around her, filling her ears with savage sounds, gruesome cracks and thuds, the screams of horses.

  Her mind remembered Alesia afire, its people casting themselves to the ground to dampen the flames of their clothing and hair and dying, dying by the hundreds. Horses fleeing from the communal stables, their bellies ripped open by swords, eyes pierced with arrows, dead already but still running.

  Mother, oh, mother… they are killing for me.

  *

  The land’s barrier of protection dissolved when Arturo instinctively brought his hand to bear against it. It fell like a sheet of water, soundless, invisible, though he could feel the disturbance of its passing, and its absence as it rejoined the land.

  He carefully checked his face and hands for blood, stepping lightly as to not startle Isidora. She was curled on the ground, senseless and moaning. He knelt beside her, touched her bare arm; her skin was cold, her eyes open and unseeing.

  He spoke her name, several times, and still she did not respond. When he lifted her from the ground she weighed almost nothing. He turned and Diego was there, holding the reigns of his horse. With his aid, Arturo gained the saddle with Isidora still in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin and one arm secure beneath her knees.

  He met his partner’s troubled gaze. “It’s the shock,” he said.

  Diego nodded. “Alesia,” he said, and did not need to say more.

  Arturo turned the horse toward Damáskenos, skirting around the worst of the carnage. They left the forest and a cool, cleansing breeze washed over them. To the far north, dark clouds boiled through the skyline, obscuring the mountaintops and lending the stone fortress a forbidding aspect.

  Behind them, the fifty men who’d ridden out of Damáskenos minutes after Arturo had sounded the alarm were gathering the dead and scouting for survivors. The barbarian honor guard of the duke he’d last seen moving away from the site on foot, their voices raised in a spine-tingling chant.

  Isidora moaned as the horse’s hooves thumped against the wood of the drawbridge and he held her more tightly, sheltering her from the inquisitive gazes of the hundreds of citizens gathered in the courtyard. They made way as he road through, up the low grade to the castle.

  The duke was standing atop the steps before the entry, his small figure in shadow, dwarfed by the mighty doors. A groom reached for the stallion’s reigns as Arturo came to a halt. He dismounted, drawing Isidora with him. She cried out softly, pressing her cheek against his neck; her skin was no longer cold but feverish.

  The duke turned and rapped his fist against the doors, which were pulled open from within. Alvar gestured him inside. “Take her to the lowest level of the west wing,” he said. “We’ve contained natural hot springs. The vapors will aid her.”

  “She is feverish,” Arturo said doubtfully, but even as he spoke she began to shake, and he touched her brow and found it cool.

  Alvar watched with worried eyes. “There is only so much a heart can bear,” said the duke, motioning an attendant near. “Lead them to the springs, please, and spread word that they are not to be disturbed.” The attendant, a kind-faced woman, curtsied and waved Arturo forward.

  “This way, sir,” she said.

  By the time they reached their destination,
Arturo’s arms and legs were weak, the rush of battle-strength having faded. The emotional intensity of the last hours had taken their toll; he felt unclean and dizzy with fatigue.

  Isidora was now dead weight in his arms, barely conscious, her heartbeat irregular. He was immensely relieved when the woman left them alone, having lit the numerous sconces along the walls and demonstrated the hanging chord he could pull for assistance.

  With a heavy sigh, he sank onto a bench, resting his aching back against a wall. The stone beneath and behind him was warm, slightly damp from the steam that drifted up from the wide, manmade spa. Before being allowed to fill from the spring’s waters, an artisan had inlaid tile along the bottom of the pool; the waters flickered luminescent green and ivory in the candlelight.

  Though he could feel sweat begin to bead on his face and chest, still Isidora remained cold, shivering. He watched her face, frowning, anxiety swimming in his chest. He looked at the pool and again at her face, wondering if this was more than shock, if he should pull the chord and summon a physician.

  It was a very long distance to the chord, so he sighed, bending to gently manipulate the sandals from her feet and unwind the scarf from her arms. He kicked off his own boots, unhooked his belt and pried it off, then carefully removed the knife-sheathes from his forearms, thighs, and calves.

  He stood with a groan, adjusting her in his arms, and walked into the pool, mindful of the possibility of slippery tiles. He needn’t have worried, for they were not slick in the least, their surfaces scoured so that they provided sufficient tread without being abrasive.

  Arturo had walked waist deep into the water before the heat fully penetrated his skin, melting the tension from his body. The strength went out of him and he sunk down. He had thought to gradually submerge Isidora, but the water rushed over them both in a surge of heat and earthy aroma. Her gown swirled around them, a cloud of white mixing with the trailing gold of her hair.

  Pushing his feet against the tiles, he moved backward to the gently curving wall of the pool. Once he was propped comfortably, he tugged the soaking shirt from his back and held it beneath the water, then brought it up over Isidora’s chest and arms. She shivered, but her skin was growing warmer, a flush filling her cheeks. He repeated the gesture, squeezing the hot water over her chest, heating the source of her circulation.

  Only distantly mindful of doing so, Arturo whispered aloud, “Please, awaken. Open your eyes. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. You’re alive, everyone’s fine. Finnéces and Edan are worried. I’m worried. I’m sorry I failed you.”

  Finally, her eyelashes flickered, drew apart, and she looked up at him. “You did not fail me,” she murmured, lips barely moving. “You came back.”

  He shook his head. “I should not have left your side.”

  Her lips quirked. “I didn’t give you much choice.”

  Arturo sighed helplessly, suppressing an absurd need to grin. He loosened his hold on her, preparing to help her sit beside him.

  “No,” she said, tightening her arm around his neck. Shadows played over her face, the blue of her eyes flickered in and out of visibility. Arturo narrowed his gaze, sure he had seen an unnatural glimmer in their depths. She smiled, softly, disarmingly, and moved against him.

  “My lady?” he asked uncertainly.

  “I cannot run or fight anymore,” she said, moving her other hand over his heart. “I do not care that I am not quite myself yet. You swore to serve me, yes?”

  He swallowed. “Yes.”

  “I wish to be served, Bellamont.”

  Arousal surged through him, hotter than the waters and steam. “Isidora, you are not yet well.” He heard his own voice, hoarse and forced, even as blood rushed to his loins, his chest tightening in anticipation.

  In response, she moved of her own accord, away from him, into deeper waters. He clenched his teeth against disappointment and closed his eyes, reminding himself that it was not right, that she was his liege. That he would wait forever if he must.

  “Arturo.”

  He opened his eyes and saw the pale leggings and white gown rippling over the surface of the water. Conscious of a tingling in his palms and feet, he let his gaze follow the path of clothing.

  When he found her, he memorized in an instant the sight of her bared shoulders, the wet hair hanging flush against her chest, her shyness as she met his gaze and looked away. Gathering his courage, more than he’d ever needed in his life, Arturo waded forward. She had turned her head and was watching him, her hair like a lion’s mane flowing from her brow.

  He was close enough to reach out and touch her; then she was in his arms, all silky skin, long legs around him, driving him roughly against a wall. His pants landed in a wet heap on stone. The tie in his hair was torn out but he felt no pain, only need, such need.

  Her lips grazed his neck, teeth finding skin, biting hard. Arturo pushed his fingers through her hair and pulled her head back. Her eyes were smoldering on his, lips glistening, body arching. She was moving against him, whimpering softly, and it was all he could do to be still.

  “Isidora, wait,” he said, breathless, aching. “I can’t do this without—” Her fingers found him, cupped him, and he bit back a groan. He tightened his grip on her hair and she went motionless, hands leaving him and her eyes clearing momentarily. There was sorrow there, behind the desire, and he wished more than anything to take it away.

  “Do not leave me,” she said softly.

  He shook his head, took a ragged breath. “I cannot ever leave you.”

  “You swore an oath,” she stated, looking away.

  Suddenly, with realization he felt from his toes to the crown of his head, he understood what she refused to say aloud. He felt again like grinning, like laughing. He gentled his hands instead, cupping her slender neck to feel her rapid heartbeat, then moved his hands slowly down, savoring the slide of water, the fullness of her breasts, the satiny tips that hardened beneath his palms. His eyes remained on her face, still turned away from him, and he traced every line, the slight bump on the bridge of her nose, the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks.

  “I love you,” he breathed, inaudibly. His hands encircled her waist, moved up her back, drawing her arms over his until he cupped her head in his hands. “Look at me, please.” Her lashes lowered, then her chin came up and she met his gaze, a challenge in her eyes.

  He again stifled the urge to smile.

  “I love you,” he said, aloud, defenseless before her but no longer afraid. He knew in his bones that he was safe. Her lower lip went slack and she moved closer, eyes searching his, needing to know it was the truth as much as he himself did. “I will never leave you of my free will, Isidora Fiannan. I love you, with all that I am.”

  She released a long breath, eyes closing briefly. Her fingers traced his jaw, held his face, and her lips came onto his. “And I love you,” she whispered, lifting her legs around him.

  As graceful as water, as breath, they found each other, and when she cried out his name, her nails scored his back and her eyes flashed brilliant blue. His skin was hot, hotter than the water curling around them, but there was no hesitance or fear, no pain as earlier in the day.

  It was just her, just Isidora, and he was safe in her heart.

  The heat reached an unbearable pinnacle and shattered; release took him by surprise, undoing him, remaking him. He clung to her, helpless, murmuring words that came easily for the first time in his life, over and over, and he was freed from the past, forgiven and redeemed.

  Arturo could not know, would not for some time, but Isidora was watching him, sated and smiling softly, as the pleasure broke upon him and his eyes flashed gold.

  Bright gold, like the dawn, pupils constricting to pinpricks.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lenora di Salvatoré took the cup being offered by the Child of Time. He watched her bring the rim to her c
racked lips, watched her throat work to bring the water into her body. More was spilled than consumed, her hands shaking hard, body insubstantial after a week’s long fast.

  It was well there were no mirrors in the eyrie, for Isidora was sure if she looked, she would see through herself to all the darkness within. It would be too much too bear. Already the long, rocky drop outside was dangerously tempting.

  When she could stomach no more water, she handed the cup back to Pandion. He gave her a guileless smile, which she tried to return and failed. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. He nodded and jumped to his feet, tireless though she’d not yet seen him rest, or eat except in small quantities and in a distracted fashion.

  Settling herself once more against the stone wall, Lenora turned her head sluggishly toward the Nameless, who sat some feet away, studying her patiently. They had been having a conversation when suddenly her vision had tunneled. She’d regained consciousness to find Pandion lifting a cup toward her lips.

  “Do you feel well?” asked the Nameless.

  “No,” she replied, grunting because she had no energy to laugh.

  The crone cocked her head in bemusement. “You were preparing to answer a question when you fainted,” she said dryly. “Do you recall?”

  Lenora’s memory of the last days was a haze, up to and including moments ago. All that was clear were the first hours, the horrific climb up the rocks to reach the eyrie. Legs and arms scraped bloody, her knuckles swollen and face streaked with grime and tears, she’d fallen upon the flat, weathered stone just as she had a decade and a half before.

  As lost and hopeless now as she’d been then.

  “No,” she answered, shutting her eyes.

  “We were exploring the root of your suffering,” the crone continued, unperturbed. “You were arguing that there is no such thing as destiny, or divine will, and I pointed out that you’ve lived your entire life under direction of self-will and it hasn’t turned out very well. Denying destiny doesn’t stop it. It only makes the road harder to walk.”