“You are a self-righteous bitch,” replied Lenora.
A piece of crockery shattered against the ground, fallen from Pandion’s nerveless fingers. From the corner of her eye she could see him standing against a distant wall, thin body trembling and mouth agape.
The Nameless sighed. “Fetch the broom, Pandion, and clean that mess. I am not upset. Lenora is correct, after a fashion.” The piercing black eyes turned on her, the full force of power in them shortening her breath. “I am righteous because I have lived longer than you can fathom, and have earned certain truths with my blood and tears.”
“You dream dreams,” Lenora murmured. “They’re just dreams, nothing more, only we Avosileans want so badly to believe in something that we believe what you tell us. How do you know the future? You are not a god.”
“There’s no trick to it, really,” said the Nameless. She lifted a hand, displaying the long chord of ivory beads. “Every surface, pore, point, and line of these beads is a memory or a dream. I’ve been collecting them for centuries. Seeing into the future is as easy as remembering the past.”
“You speak in riddles,” Lenora sighed, dropping her head back against the wall. The small firepit nearby cast shadows over the Nameless’ wrinkled face; it was hard to decipher her expression, if she wore one at all. “I do not care to remember the past. In fact, I thought you might help me forget it. Work some of your sorcery on my mind so I can live the rest of my days in blissful ignorance.”
“That is not why you journeyed here.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said raggedly.
“I am sick of your dissembling,” snapped the Nameless. “It is unbecoming of a descendant of the Isle of Dusk. When Alesia fell, Isidora Fiannan did not spend her time whining about it, waiting for others to fulfill her duty.”
“I am not her!” Lenora fumed, sitting up. Shadows thickened around her eyes, shot through with little stars. She breathed slowly until the dizziness passed.
“Who are you, then?” The ivory beads were dancing, blurred white spheres clacking between, around swollen knuckles. “You do not believe in fate, have fought through life every step of the way. In the end, what have you gained? You have done everything I warned you would do. So, choose your rebellion. Either you believe you have control over everything, or you are powerless. Either you fight, and die a barren, heartless woman, or you surrender and are free.”
Lenora drew a short, stunned breath. “I am afraid,” she whispered finally. “Something inside me is twisted, like a bone once broken and set wrong.”
“There is only one remedy to follow such an ailment, though it is quite painful,” said the Nameless calmly. “Do you grasp its nature?”
Lenora scowled, but was too tired to hold her fury. “Break the bone at the same point and reset it.” She snorted contemptuously. “Do you suggest I smash all the bones in my body?”
“It is not your body that must break,” replied the crone.
The shadows were growing. Lenora felt her eyelids beginning to fall together, her muscles become liquid with fatigue. “Tell me,” she whispered. “The rest of the story…” she trailed off, mouth too numb to move, and wondered what had been in the water. Nevertheless, she was certain the Nameless understood her words and asking.
As she slipped closer to unconsciousness, she heard the crone’s voice clearly. Caught in that void a moment from sleep, unable to regain awareness but not yet dreaming, the Nameless’ voice was mild and soothing, nothing like the content of her words.
Alarm came first, but did not breach the languor of her limbs. Then, when the enchantress’ tale was finished, Lenora felt a calm settle within her, deep and abiding. The cold core of her heart warmed but did not soften. It grew even harder, hot like metal before the melting point, crystalline with the stirrings of purpose.
When Lenora awoke next, sunlight slanted through the opening of the eyrie, and she was alone. Beside her was a plate of cut fruit, nuts, and a thick, buttered slice of bread. She ate ravenously and without care for manners. When her belly was stretched full and its initial cramps of protest gone, she levered herself from the ground and waited for vertigo to pass.
Nearby stood a small tub filled with fresh water, a sliver of soap and a cloth resting on its lip. She walked forward gingerly, bending to touch a folded bundle of clothes and beside it, a pack filled with provisions for travel.
With a grim smile characteristic of the Dark Mistress of Thieves Alley, Lenora set about scrubbing the dirt from her body and hair, taking time to clean herself thoroughly, from her toes to beneath her fingernails. The air in the eyrie, so high and thin, was cool on her exposed skin, raising bumps over her arms and chest. The wind was a constant, whistling murmur as it passed before the cave’s opening, moving along the rocky heights.
Far below and to the west, in Avosilea, the breeze would be warm and salty, the sands of her favorite cove soft and warm beneath her feet.
She gave in to the memory, savoring it, giving it the full focus of her mind until the sights, sounds, and smells of her heart’s resting place were complete, multilayered and glistening with clarity. Then she tucked the kernel of time away, deep and safe, and rose from the bath to dress.
*
Devlin swam parallel to the shore, his body cutting through the gentle swells. The sun was a tingling heat on his back, relieved each stroke by a sheet of cool seawater. Every day for the last month he’d come to the cove, sometimes just to sit and stare at the water, but mostly to swim, and to wait for Lenora.
Having lived near half his life in the desert, mostly underground, it was only in the last week that his body had regained its harmony with the sea. His limbs, unused to being immersed in the element, had floundered, fighting to regain long unused dexterity. His skin, likewise, had burned and blistered painfully before finally darkening to its youthful complexion.
When he felt the last tension of waiting drain from him, he turned on his back and kicked lazily toward the beach. Soft sand scraped against his feet, lifted against his back until he lay supported, breathing heavily with his arms behind his head.
There was someone standing on the beach. He sensed who it was, struggled not to be disappointed as he sat up and swiveled toward them. The water was shallow enough that the echoes of waves against his back had minimal force. He sat cross-legged, feeling his torso rocked gently by the currents, and suddenly knew he didn’t want to hear what Astin would say.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” he asked softly, meeting his friend’s agonized gaze.
Astin nodded, holding up a piece of parchment. In Devlin’s mind the bright day dimmed and grew dark, as infinite as the night sky. Across the sand was strewn a blanket of stars, and he saw Lenora running across them, toward him, shedding the layers of her skirts.
He blinked, found himself standing before Astin, water streaming from his shoulders and chest, dripping from his shorn-off trousers. The parchment was in his hand, the edge absorbing water from his fingers. He stared at the familiar handwriting until the shapes became letters, the letters became words.
The enchantress finished the telling of my Long Road. Guard my memory, for I must break that which healed wrongly and set right the imbalance of the past. Know that if I am able, I will come home again.
Her initials were scrawled beneath the last line.
Devlin looked up, the awful truth rising, gaining form and a face. “Terrin,” he said, and Astin gave a jerking nod. “We must find her.”
Astin’s eyes grew glassy with tears and he looked away, struggling for composure. “The letter was dated two weeks ago, delivery requested for today,” he murmured. “We won't be able to track her.”
“We must,” Devlin snapped.
Branches of fate, twisting and serpentine, spun and coiled around him. There was a way, laid out by his own Long Road. But if he followed the path even now opening before
him, gaining purpose, Devlin knew it was likely he would lose Lenora forever.
But she would be alive and safe.
He closed his eyes, balling the parchment in his fist. He beseeched the land, the Gods, the stars above Dunak, Please, show me another path. He heard a voice of memory, that of the Master of Knives before him saying that the heart of the land, the sacred Taproot, was love, and thus only a heart filled by love was capable of true sacrifice.
Devlin opened his eyes, looked inland across the beach, up the slow, green rise to the solitary tree standing watch over the cove, its drooping branches swinging, lush garlands dancing in the wind.
He walked past Astin without speaking, but touched his friend’s shoulder gently as he passed. The tree beckoned him, lifting its many arms in supplication. As he walked, he thought of a day long gone, when he’d stood beneath the shelter of those branches and watched Lenora swimming.
As he passed under the wide canopy of the tree, the wind blew more fiercely, cooler without the warming rays of sunlight. Soft, thin leaves grazed his drying skin, tickling across his body like the touch of a thousand hands, like the whisper of a thousand voices.
Palm against the gnarled trunk, Devlin dropped his chin to his chest and sighed.
Using the connection of his flesh against the tree as an anchor, he descended toward the heart of the land. He was careful not to allow his urgency to overwhelm control, as it had in Vianalon. There was no need to touch domhain lár itself, to risk reawakening the Serpent of the Root. Resisting the urge to plummet deeper, to explore the Root he’d so briefly touched weeks before, Devlin stabilized his focus.
The deep, timeless heartbeat of the land became clear, began to beat in his chest, high above ground. Here, near domhain lár, Time was a drop of water in the ocean and there were no conflicts in his heart as to the choice he was making.
It was not one road among many, but the road.
Children of Calabria, hear me!
He sent the summons from his heart, which beat in time to the land’s heart, which in turn moved his call through the countless arteries, veins, and vessels of the land.
*
It was some moments before Ezekiel ibn Dukari realized that the front ranks had stopped. He halted and turned, tugging his hood close to his face against the downpour. For a man desert born and bred, the sheets of water roaring downward from the bellies of low, dark clouds was an awesome and terrible sight.
At least, that was how he had felt a week ago, when they’d entered the Kilcaran pass and the rains had unleashed upon them. Now, he was merely sodden and tired, sick of walking, sleeping, and eating in the rain.
Almost, he wished they still traversed the merciless, blistering desert.
It was hard to see through the deluge, which struck the ground and his body with force, sending up tiny geysers that were almost immediately quenched by more rain. Hunching his shoulders against the pounding, Ezekiel forced his aching, wet body to walk until he could see people rather than shadows.
“What’s happening?” he yelled over the rush of water.
No one acknowledged him or spoke. The foremost ranks of veiled-ones stood clustered together and motionless. Several of them looked to have been frozen in the middle of action. One figure’s arm was lifted, cocked up, as if to wipe the water from their face. Another’s eyes were scrunched tight, body bowed slightly forward, poised on the edge of a sneeze.
Ezekiel shuddered, took another step forward, then stopped again. He held his hands over his eyes and squinted into the distance. As far as he could see, the entire army was immobile.
Ignoring the tingle of fear that tried to unravel his sanity—already much frayed by the persistent, torturous drumming of the rain—he made himself take the last steps separating him from the Master of Knives. The man’s eyes were open, unseeing and unblinking, even as Ezekiel saw raindrops strike the exposed surfaces.
Panic closed his throat on a cry and he reached out, grabbing the man by the shoulders.
A familiar voice, reedy and slicing, boomed in his mind.
I am Master of Knives, my word is law.
Ezekiel bit his tongue as a chorus of voices, thousands upon thousands, spoke: Your word is law.
Is there one who would challenge me?
No, replied the veiled-ones.
There was a moment of silence, then, Name yourself.
There was no question to whom he spoke. “Ezekiel ibn Dukari,” he whispered.
I remember your heart, son of Dunak, the reedy voice replied. Your cause is pure, and I do not require use of the souls with you.
“I—I don’t understand,” he stammered.
It is not for you to understand, replied the Master of Knives. I release these men and women from the land’s call.
The shoulders beneath his hands jerked, the man’s eyes blinking roundly at him. Before Ezekiel could speak, the veiled-one who had been Master of Knives tore from his grasp and turned to his people.
“You have my death if you wish it,” he yelled, “for I took the title of Master and was not worthy!”
Awareness spread like a ripple through the army as bodies came awake. The frozen sneeze was completed, throats coughed, and men and woman stared around them, sharing emotions without words. There was another disturbance, this time flowing from the end ranks to the first.
It was several minutes of heavy silence, with only the constant waterfall in their ears, before the front line parted for an old woman. No veil concealed her face, but it was not uncommon for the greatly aged. She walked unsupported, her steps delicate and careful, back stooped by time.
Ezekiel was shocked that one so frail had made the journey across the blinding desert, much less survived the arduous climb into the mountains. Feeling less like a prince than a foolish interloper, he stood as still as he could, hoping not to draw notice.
The ancient woman stopped before the former Master, looked up into his face. Her voice was dry and raspy, “It is not that you are unworthy, young one. It only happens that there is another also worthy, and more needed by the land.”
The man dropped to his knees and the thin river of water on the ground splashed against his legs. “Forgive me, ancient mother,” he said, bowing his head.
She laid a gnarled hand on his brow. “You are forgiven.”
The crone turned as if to reenter the ranks, and for a moment Ezekiel thought he was safe from her scrutiny. Then she lifted her head and looked straight at him. It seemed the rain lessened, enough for him to see eyes like a starless sky staring through him, finding his heart and reading his every secret. Gold blazed in a circle around her irises, then was gone.
Ezekiel stood shaking as she closed the distance between them. He could see the many wrinkles of her face, the water running through each crease. “I do not like the rain, much,” she said.
“Neither do I,” he whispered.
“Very well,” she replied, and lifted her arms. The sleeves fell back from her wrists, revealing a thick ivory necklace clutched in one hand. She said nothing, made no gestures, but after a moment the air began to change, the fixed, dusky gray growing lighter. A moment more and the downpour began to soften, sprinkling gently now against their faces.
Ezekiel looked up, felt simple, childlike joy as he witnessed the clouds dispersing, the sunlight now cascading down, painting the misty air with rainbows.
“Thank you, ancient mother,” he said, looking down with a smile.
She grimaced, pushing more wrinkles against her eyes and mouth. “Don’t like that name much, either,” she replied, then lifted a bony finger. “Travel swiftly, prince-who-would-be-king. The ending has begun.”
The sunlight hit a pool of water beside him and sent a blinding glare into his eyes. He gasped and turned his head, and when he looked back the crone was gone.
*
Devlin c
ame to on his knees, gasping for breath. The day was nearly gone, shadows lengthening around the tree like the fingers of a hand unclenching. He shivered and stretched his spine, feeling bones pop from the pressure.
Astin was crouched beside him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise.
“I’m back,” he wheezed.
Astin made a harsh noise. “Where did you go?”
Devlin gained his feet, leaning against the tree for support. He looked at his friend and away, unable to meet his gaze. “The veiled-ones answer to me once more,” he said, watching the shadows slide thickly over low hills to the east. A flock of birds lifted from a grassy crest and beat dark wings into the sky. “I am Master of Knives.”
Astin lifted himself gracefully from his crouch, moved until Devlin had no choice but to look at him. “Tell me what that means.”
“It means I must take up the veil again, live once more in the shadows.” It felt odd, saying it aloud, not yet accompanied by emotion. “But the order has been sent to find Lenora.”
“They will find her,” Astin said, not quite a question.
He smiled tiredly. “Yes.”
Astin dragged a hand through his graying hair. “You were muttering to yourself, at the end. Something about the Church.”
Devlin shuddered, and the reaction had little to do with the air on his naked torso. For a moment he battled years of instilled discipline that told him Astin was other, not like him, that what he had just learned was no business of his. Yet it concerned him, concerned every descendant of the Isle of Dusk, every soul that traveled the Long Road.
He spoke hesitatingly, letting the truth stumble out. “As I moved to return, I was seized by a call sent weeks ago into the land, by Lady Fiannan of Alesia. Though she is not bound in the way of the veiled-ones, she possesses a tie, of sorts, with the Taproot. Thus, the call was not received immediately, but stored in the Root.”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 25