The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  What he did not say, was too tired to explain, was that Lady Fiannan’s bond was with the Serpent of the Root, the ancient Drakon Shenlith, who was very much awake, brought from a millennia of slumber by Devlin’s own summons.

  Aloud, he told Astin, “The Lady Fiannan was attacked by a company of Church soldiers.” His friend stilled, his gaze sparking with alarm. “She survived, was rescued,” he added quickly. “But among the soldiers were a boy and…” his tongue thickened with shame, “…a veiled-one.”

  Astin’s eyes grew wide, “One of your people, riding with the Church?”

  “Not one of mine. A rogue, too full of greed and selfishness to accept the discipline of the land. His face is not known to me. Yet.”

  Devlin no longer felt the cold; need and fear clawed through him, warming his bones. He felt the mantel of Master of Knives settle more deeply upon him. “The rogue will be dealt with,” he said tonelessly. “It is the boy that concerns me.”

  Astin only continued to stare at him.

  “The boy is a mystic of incredible power, perverted from birth,” he spoke, and though his voice was neutral, he felt horror within as he remembered the glimpse of the boy through Lady Fiannan’s eyes. “He is the High Cleric’s greatest weapon, an instrument trained to seek magic and destroy it.”

  “Great God,” Astin hissed.

  Devlin nodded in irony. “Indeed, for this child is the High Cleric’s own son, and Luther Viccole is a mystic. He seeks the Stone of Beginning, which is in Lady Fiannan’s possession.”

  Astin grunted. “Lenora told me of that,” he said, frowning. “What is the significance of the Stone, beyond its symbolism?”

  Devlin paused, wary of speaking the words, as if in giving them voice it would release the final floodgate that sheltered all of Calabria from doom. Finally, he bowed his head.

  “Whoever possesses the Stone of Beginning holds the power to remake the world.”

  SUMMER

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Isidora stood in the dawn, a light shawl draped around her shoulders. A crisp wind, driven down through the valley from the snowcapped Kilcaran range, had flushed her cheeks rose and made a floating golden corona of her hair. Though passing servants watched her from the corners of their eyes, and once outside her hearing whispered amongst themselves of her tremendous beauty and queenly grace, Isidora herself was struggling not to tear at her hair as she watched Arturo fight Mufahti, head of Damáskenos’ honor guard.

  Despite the lingering cool of the past night, the air was warming fast. The rising sun burned fiery gold overhead, shining off the castle’s walls, heating Isidora’s head and back. Sunlight moved like a flow of glittering water around her, peaking over the ramparts and chasing the last shadows from the large training arena.

  The two figures locked in combat in the center of the arena were so absorbed in each other that their only concession to the glaring dawn was a tightening of their eyes.

  The black skinned barbarian wore only a brightly beaded loincloth, his massive, muscled frame gleaming with oil and sweat. Arturo, though not a small man, appeared frail in comparison. Also shirtless, his hair was pulled back in a severe knot at his nape, his chest and shoulders straining as he blocked another vicious blow from Mufahti’s staff.

  Isidora glanced at the man beside her, trying to read Diego’s stoic expression. The soldier merely patted her hand awkwardly where it clenched the wooden fence before them.

  “He is holding his own, my lady,” he murmured, eyes never straying from the men.

  She compressed her lips against a need for reassurance, her gaze drawn back to the arena just as Mufahti gave a roar and lunged forward. Arturo barely managed to avoid a downward slash of the staff, diving gracelessly to the side and rolling across the ground. He came to his feet panting, sweat running tracks through the dirt on his chest.

  Isidora groaned and shut her eyes.

  For the last two weeks she had been awakened before dawn by the warmth of Arturo’s body fading from their bed. She would watch in sleepy silence as he stoked the fire in the hearth, then dressed quietly as to not disturb her rest.

  Before he left, he would come to the bedside and look down on her. She was always careful to keep her eyes loosely closed and her breathing even, so that he’d think her still asleep as he trailed his fingers lightly across her face and over her lips. Finally, he would bend down to kiss her brow, and whisper that he loved her.

  An hour after dawn he would return, usually limping and covered in dirt, and at the sound of the door Isidora would rise from bed to ring for hot water. Arturo protested her ministrations, quite stubbornly at first, then later with less conviction. It came to be that they both looked forward to the private hour each morning when she would kneel behind the bath to wash his hair and massage the sweat and grim from his aching shoulders and arms.

  Yesterday, as she carefully cleaned a laceration on his chest, she had asked why it was necessary to abuse his body this way. Drowsy from the bath and her touch, Arturo had offered a flippant reply regarding stamina, then yanked on her arm so that she fell, sputtering, into the water.

  Much to Arturo’s surprise, this morning after tending to the hearth, he’d turned to find Isidora dressed and waiting for him. Instantly realizing her deception of the previous mornings, a flush had risen through his face and before he could bite his tongue, he’d ordered her back to bed. She’d merely lifted her brows and walked from the room, beating him to the training arena.

  Now, as Isidora’s fingers began to lose feeling from gripping the fence so tightly, she regretted her own rashness. Even though she knew the men would deal no lasting harm against each other, the sight of violence made her stomach knot in dread. She could still hear the cries of the Church Soldiers in the forest, first those who’d died against the land’s shield, then the scores of others who’d fallen beneath the weapons of Damáskenos’ men.

  The nightmares those first nights had been terrible, vividly real except in their end. In her dreams the veiled-one reached through the land’s protection and seized her, held her immobile for the maimed child to lift pale hands and touch her face. She’d awoken every night just before contact, thrashing and screaming in the darkness. Only Arturo’s body encasing hers kept her from injuring herself, his nonsensical words of comfort bringing her slowly back from the pit of despair.

  A shout of pain snapped her focus to the present. Diego stiffened beside her, clearly struggling against the urge to join the fight. Through a haze of nausea, Isidora watched Arturo rally from a vicious blow to the abdomen and snake inside Mufahti’s long-armed defense to strike downward across his shoulder. The giant grunted but otherwise showed no signs of injury. His sinuous movements were like an exotic dance, something dangerous and riveting to watch. The staff was a dark blur as it sailed forward.

  Arturo was too slow this time to avoid the weapon, and the wood met his shins with a thick crack of sound. He fell, air whooshing from his lungs as he landed hard enough to send a thick spray of dust into the air. Mufahti leapt forward, staff raised high, the muscles of his back quivering with intent.

  Diego saw the movement of Isidora’s hand but reached for her too late, his fingers making contact with her shoulder instead. A hair-raising rush of power fell over him, the same tickling storm he’d felt as a child, and again, more recently, when she had been God Touched. This time, the sensation was immeasurably more potent, and effectively froze him where he stood.

  Isidora’s fingers were lost in light, as if a tiny sun rested in her palm. Thinking only that Arturo was defenseless and injured, she spread her fingers, releasing the power of the brilliant orb.

  Mufahti’s staff blazed like a rod of white flame. He cried out and dropped the weapon, which hit the ground and burned to a line of ash.

  Around the arena stood a loose crowd of stable hands, squires, soldiers, and maids, all of whom had
paused in their duties to watch the fight. They stood in shocked silence, most staring uncomprehendingly at the small pile that had been Mufahti’s signature weapon. Others, though, mostly Damáskenos’ soldiers, had turned speculative gazes on Isidora.

  Diego, released from the hold of her power, moved forward a step so that she stood mostly behind him. In the arena, Mufahti was helping a grumbling Arturo to his feet.

  “What have I done?” Isidora whispered.

  “It will be well, my lady,” Diego replied, though his tone was unconvincing.

  The two combatants stood looking down at what had been a staff. They spoke for a moment, words indistinct, then as one turned their gazes toward the woman at the fence.

  Arturo’s first words made Diego’s knees weak with relief. “Now, my lady, was that really necessary?” he asked, strong voice full of humor.

  Mufahti’s wide face was split by a grin. “Seeing as how your skull was about to be cracked open, I would say so,” he said, clapping the shorter man on the back hard enough to make him sway.

  The silence of the arena shattered. Young boys vaulted over the fence, chattering loudly as they surrounding the two men. Maids dropped their pails and laundry sacks to clap and whistle. The soldiers grouped together to discuss the fight and the event which had ended it.

  Diego turned in time to catch Isidora as she fainted.

  Arturo was at their side seconds later, scooping her into his arms. Unmindful of his injuries and Diego’s protests, he walked as quickly as his aching shins would allow. Much of the castle was awake, setting about morning routines, but thankfully the hallways of the guest wing were clear.

  By the time he reached the door of their chamber, he wasn’t certain he could walk another step, let alone manage the knob. He was about to holler his frustration and pain when a door further down the hallway opened, revealing Hadrian’s startled face.

  “Is she all right?” asked the cleric, taking an uncertain step forward.

  “Fine,” Arturo ground out. “Will you open this blasted door before I collapse, and you have to carry us both inside?”

  Hadrian moved with due haste, holding open the door for Arturo to stumble inside. He made it as far as the bed before his knees gave out. Isidora fell limply to the mattress, and he managed to twist so that his hip, instead of his knees, hit the stone floor.

  He forced his eyes open to slits and looked at Hadrian. “The lady will be absent from your daily sessions.”

  Hadrian nodded, his concerned gaze lifting to the bed and down again. “It is of no import,” he murmured. “We were only reviewing the manuscript of her accounting.”

  Despite his various pains and near catatonic mind, Arturo stirred at the news. “The tale is finished?”

  Something crossed Hadrian’s face, too quick to name. “For now, yes,” he said cryptically. Isidora stirred on the bed, moaned faintly. The cleric colored and cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you then, to…” He waved a hand vacuously.

  Arturo found he could grin. “Clean ourselves up?”

  Hadrian dipped his head. “Indeed,” he said, mouth turning in a wry smile. “Good day, Bellamont.”

  When the cleric was gone, Arturo closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the mattress. His chin ached from catching the tip of Mufahti’s staff, a steady throb that radiated over his head and down his neck. His arms and chest felt leaden, bruised, every inch of his skin tender, chafing against the fabric of his pants, the wood of the mattress frame against his back. From the knees down, his legs were tingling and half-numb; he was grateful for the reprieve, for in time the pain would claim notice. Hopefully by then he’d be scrubbed clean, drunk, and lying down.

  Arturo turned his head carefully, focusing on Isidora’s foot where it dangled over the side of the bed. Lips quirked in a soft smile, he contemplated that the High Priestess of Istar had just summoned elemental power under the God’s light, and likely fainted from the shock of it. All because she’d thought to protect him in battle.

  Surely she was the most extraordinary creature he’d ever encountered.

  The last Lady of Alesia acted with consummate gentleness, grace, and compassion in all she did, treating the lowliest scullery maid with the same deference she treated the Duke himself. In the past several weeks, she’d unknowingly commandeered the respect of every last soul in Damáskenos.

  She had also acquired several admirers among the Duke’s men, not the least of whom was Eduardo Vasquez, Rodrigo’s young son. The boy had become fast friends with Edan, who much to everyone’s surprise, after an evening spent closeted with Lucero, had emerged with halting speech.

  The Scholar, when questioned by an ecstatic Isidora on his methods of coaxing language from the boy, had replied gently that he had offered Edan the means through which to share his own harrowing story of their flight from Alesia. Lucero’s blindness had been the key; Edan had been able to finally release his stores of grief and rage, safe from the pity he feared to find in someone’s eyes.

  Arturo had held Isidora that night as she’d wept in gratitude and lingering sorrow. He’d cried himself, silently, in wonderment for emotions he’d long thought himself incapable of experiencing. From that first night in the baths weeks ago, to every night thereafter, he was slowly reclaiming that which had been lost to him.

  His honor and, infinitely more valuable, his heart.

  By day he was Black Bellamont, Champion to the Lady of Alesia, confidant and friend to Duke Damáskenos and Princess Serephina. He was also, through repeated torment and defeat, becoming accepted by Mufahti and his men. He had not yet learned the mystery of the barbarians’ vow to the Duke, but he understood well the process of initiation, having lived through a similarly arduous training with the veiled-ones.

  As his mornings were spent being brazenly beaten and ridiculed by the impervious Mufahti, his afternoons were an ordeal of a different kind, passed mostly in the company of the Duke. His discussions with Alvar were long and turbulent, often consisting of speculation rather than certainties. Ignacio, Diego, and Rodrigo Vasquez were frequent visitors as well, and every so often Mufahti and one or more of his men would lend council to their Duke.

  The imminent arrival of the veiled-ones, lead by Prince Ezekiel of Dunak, was now common knowledge. There was a nearly palpable undercurrent of anticipation throughout Damáskenos, from the keep’s kitchens to its outlying settlements.

  Following the pronouncement of the Duke, the castle had been scrubbed top to bottom, its hundreds of unoccupied chambers outfitted with cots and amenities to serve as a massive barracks. In the city at large, the streets were swept and gutters cleaned of winter debris. Doorways and window trims received new coats of paint and awnings were swatted with brooms until clean. The most farseeing guards kept watch day and night on the ramparts, poised to raise a cry the moment signal fires were visible on the mountain pass.

  As they waited, the fledgling council deliberated a range of issues: the logistics of keeping secret the veiled-ones’ arrival in Tanalon, recent word of the Borgetzan army in route toward Vianalon, and King Manual of Argenta.

  Not a week ago, an Argentan emissary had arrived in Damáskenos bearing a sealed letter by the king’s own hand. Manual, in very politic prose, had professed himself on bent knee, awaiting word of Tanalon’s rightful liege. When asked by Arturo how the king might have known of Serephina’s whereabouts, the Duke had given him a bland smile.

  The Princess Serephina, present much of the time in the conference room, rarely joined her voice to the discussions. She preferred instead to listen, her quick mind absorbing facts and theories, rarely revealing emotion. Neither Arturo nor Alvar were bothered by her prudence; they had known her father well and were aware that she was very much Armando’s daughter.

  When asked, however, for her opinion on Argenta, the princess had spoken with candor. With a disarming smile, she’d concluded th
at it was no secret that the Argentan prince was of marriageable age and his father an ambitious man, but those details were shadowed by the promise of having the finest cavalry and archers in Calabria joined to her cause.

  Thus, the Argentan emissary had been shown the full hospitality of the keep for three days, and on nightfall of the forth had ridden from the gates with an escort of twelve of Damáskenos’ guard, who’d shadowed him as far as the Wasteland. Strapped to the courageous man’s skin beneath his armor was a letter of gratitude and joy from Serephina, tempered with worry for her country and outrage at the both High Cleric’s actions and the approach of the Borgetzan forces.

  Nothing was said of Dunak.

  The vote had been unanimous that Manual need not know, as yet, that Ezekiel ibn Dukari and the veiled-ones were crossing the Kilcaran range. The challenge of uniting Argenta, Damáskenos, and Dunak was not as pressing as garnering support however they might. Fusing two elite armies on foreign soil, without disastrous backlash, would be the burden of Serephina and whoever she chose to stand as commander.

  For now, it was enough that there would be, as promised by a mystic in a dream, an army in the north.

  On the bed above him, Isidora was finally rousing. Arturo detached himself from his musings, the sound of her voice reminding him that there were things more compelling than war councils. Like every day from sunset to sunrise, when he was able to shed Bellamont and she her title, and they came together as man and woman.

  “Arturo?” she murmured.

  He cleared his throat to speak, turning a little. What he might have said was drowned out by the awakened pain in his body. Groaning, he let his head fall back to the mattress. Her foot retracted from his view, replaced a moment later by her face. A golden curl brushed his cheek, tickling, and her blue eyes were wide.