She stumbled from the bed to the door, pulling hard on the ivory chord which hung from the ceiling. As they waited for a servant to answer the summons, she bent beside him to carefully slip his boots from his feet.
“I’m sorry, I'm sorry,” she said, over and over until he grabbed the hand that was floating aimlessly around his torso.
“By the God, woman, I’ll be fine,” he grumbled.
There was a quick knock on the door and Isidora rushed to open it, heaving a sigh of relief at the maid’s familiar face. The young woman grinned, a sparkle in her dark eyes and a basket of soaps and towels in her arms. She gestured to the four boys behind her, each of whom had steaming basins of water braced on their shoulders. “Thought you might be spared the extra wait.”
“Gertrude, thank you so much,” Isidora breathed, moving quickly aside to allow them access.
The youths kept their eyes averted as they filed past Arturo and into the adjacent bathing chamber. Gertrude bustled after them, her voice floating back into the room as she directed the pouring of water. Minutes later, they reappeared with the empty basins, walking quickly to escape the bossy maid.
The last boy paused at the door and turned to give an awkward bow. “That was a brilliant fight this morning, my lord,” he said, grinning. Gertrude reappeared in the doorway with a scowl; he fled with alacrity after his fellows.
“I’m terribly sorry, my lord Bellamont,” Gertrude clucked, shaking her head.
Arturo kept his expression neutral as he replied, “I’m no lord, Gertrude. And it’s no bother about the boys.”
The maid smiled hesitantly, the expression softening her rosy face. She glanced between Isidora and Arturo, and blushed scarlet. “Forgive me,” she said, “Good day.”
She was partway through the door when she collided with Diego, whose momentum as he walked into the room sent her spinning into the doorframe with a squeal. Diego darted forward as she tripped, grabbing her by the arms to steady her.
“Have I hurt you?” he demanded roughly.
Gertrude stared open-mouthed at the soldier, whose fearsome, scarred face was mere inches from hers. She swallowed visibly and began to tremble. “No, I’m fine,” she mumbled. The color that had drained from her face roared back, much to her obvious embarrassment.
Diego, taking her reaction as abhorrence, quickly released her, offering a muttered apology. He stepped inside the room and stood stiffly, eyes darting around the room. Behind his back, Gertrude stood a moment more, staring thoughtfully at his leather-clad shoulders, before vanishing into the hallway.
Isidora slowly closed the door and leaned against it, sharing a small, considering smile with Arturo, who asked mildly, “What’s so important that you knocked poor Gertrude senseless to gain entry?”
Diego cleared his throat and looked up, a strange gleam in his eyes. “The signal fires have been sighted,” he said.
“They are days early!” Isidora gasped.
“They are veiled-ones,” Diego replied with a shrug.
Pain forgotten, Arturo pushed himself from the floor, then sat on the bed with a hiss. “Anshar’s balls,” he cursed, earning a reproachful look from Isidora. “When?”
“Just now,” Diego replied, voice tight with anticipation.
Arturo scratched at his face, wincing at the dirt that came away beneath his fingernails. “How long until they arrive?”
“They’ll enter the valley by nightfall,” he said, and finally released a grin. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”
Arturo couldn’t help but respond to Diego’s excitement, feeling it thrill through his blood. Not long before, as Armando lay dying, he’d had no hope for Tanalon’s future or Serephina’s cause. But with the awakening of his heart had come an awakening of another sort, that of love he bore his country, and a deep sense that he would do what he must to free Tanalon from tyranny.
Isidora’s expression, however, instantly sobered him. She averted her eyes and walked across the room, into the bathing chamber. His heart clenched a little at the stiffness in her shoulders, the tension in her usually fluid walk.
He met Diego’s knowing gaze. “May I assume the Duke wishes a conference?”
He nodded. “Your presence and Lady Fiannan’s are requested.”
“Give us half the day,” Arturo spoke softly, glancing toward the inner doorway.
Diego nodded again and let himself out. Arturo gripped the bedpost and hauled himself up, carefully testing the pain in his shins. Deciding it was manageable, he limped across the room.
Isidora sat calmly on a stool beside the large tub, a cloth and bar of soap in her lap. She did not look at him as he unfastened his trousers and gingerly eased his legs free. He slowly levered one foot, then the other into the bath, and lowered himself into the steaming water. For some minutes he lay unmoving, head fallen back and eyes closed, letting the heat sooth the worst of his soreness.
When he hazarded a look through his eyelashes, he found Isidora watching him. She noticed his gaze and turned her head quickly, wiping roughly at her eyes.
“What is it, my love?” he asked softly.
She refused to turn back, but extended the cloth and soap in one hand. He felt a curious tightening in his gut when as he took the offering, she snatched her hand away before he could touch her. “Isidora—” he began.
She lifted a hand to stay his words and rose, exiting the chamber.
Knowing there was nothing he could say to bring her back, he unfastened the chord in his hair. He worked the soap into a lather on his scalp, then scrubbed the grime from his face and neck with more force than necessary.
As he rose from beneath the water and leaned back against the tub, his breath stilled at the touch of her hands on his shoulders. She reached out and he placed the bar of soap in her hand.
“I apologize for my behavior,” she said softly. Distracted by the feel of her fingers running lather across his back, Arturo merely nodded. “I reacted very childishly to the news of the veiled-ones’ approach. The truth is I do not wish for their arrival, nor do I wish for the future that rushes toward us. It is a future of war, and holds no place for us together.”
“That’s not true,” he whispered, grabbing her hands and swiveling toward her. He looked into her eyes, read the deep fear there. “Whatever you’re afraid of, I won't let happen. I am your Champion and nothing will come between us.”
Isidora knew he believed the words, would live by them no matter the consequence. Yet she could not let him. There were others who needed him more; Calabria needed Black Bellamont.
“I release you from your vow,” she said somberly.
His amber eyes sparked with anger. “You cannot,” he said stiffly, clenching her hands more tightly as she tried to move away.
This was not how Isidora had imagined the conversation unraveling. Over the past week she had played out the scenario many times, complete with her quiet acceptance and his sincere remorse. She would live as she might, possibly retreat further north and seek out other mystics with whom she might find a home, taking herself and the amulet of the Gods far from the High Cleric’s reach. Her separation from Arturo would be one more grief for her heart to endure, but she would bear it for the sake of Calabria.
The needs of the land were greater by far than the needs of her heart.
All of her confusion and fear sharpened her tongue. “Do you not see the road that fate has laid before you, Arturo? Just who do you imagine will lead the joined armies of Dunak, Damáskenos, and Argenta? Who do you think Serephina has in mind for commander? Ignacio? The Duke?” She tore her hands free from his and stood to pace before the bath. “It must be someone close to House Caville, someone known in all three nations who leads this army.”
Arturo stared at her in bafflement, then gave an abrupt laugh. “Are you mad?” he sputtered. “Of course Ignacio will lead Serephina’
s army. He is her Minister of War.”
Isidora halted, spun to face him. Her entire frame trembled, her hands balled into fists. “Do not belittle yourself,” she snapped. “There has never been anyone else capable of this feat but you. Lucero knows it, Hadrian knows it, the Duke himself knows it. You are Black Bellamont, the sword of Tanalon. The only one who refuses to see the truth is you!”
Her outburst had an effect opposite of what she’d expected. Arturo relaxed in the bath, calmly retrieved the soap and cloth, and resumed scrubbing himself.
“You have nothing to say?” she demanded.
He glanced at her before applying the cloth behind his ears. She watched him warily as he rinsed a final time and stretched to reach for a towel. Water sluiced down his chest, chasing the dark line of hair on his abdomen. By the time he had stepped from the bath and was leisurely drying himself, her quivering had nothing to do with anger.
Arturo, very much aware of the effect he was having on her, spent an unnecessary amount of him wringing the excess water from his hair. He straightened finally and looked at her, saw her shallow breathing and the spots of color high on her cheeks. An intense surge of possessiveness and need coursed through him, washing away the vestiges of pain in his body.
She didn’t move as he walked toward her, as the towel slipped from his hips and fell to the floor. Her eyes had darkened to midnight blue, raised to his with such defiance in their depths that when he kissed her, his intentions of gentleness were banished.
Her gown tore as he pulled it from her body, as he lifted her against the wall and yanked her legs around his waist. When he was sheathed inside her, he stilled, held her immobile until she opened her eyes. He was used to the flare of power that rose with their coupling, which constricted her pupils and circled in her irises. He was familiar by now, as well, with the tingling warmth that radiated down his spine.
“Nothing will take me from you,” he whispered intently, and the emotion in her face told him he’d been right on the source of her fear. “Do you understand?”
She looked away, compressing her lips. “You will lead the army to retake Vianalon,” she said tightly.
Arturo shifted his body and thrust into her, bringing a ragged cry from her throat. She writhed against him, nails digging into his shoulders. Her eyes came back to his, drowning blue, and he captured her mouth, holding her tightly to him.
“Nothing will take me from you,” he repeated against her lips, then echoed his conviction with every inch of his being, until his legs weakened and they collapsed to the floor atop the pile of towels.
She rose above him, moved against him with her hair curtaining them both, fiery in the sunlight from the room’s small window. And when she gasped and went rigid, she flung back her head so that the line of her body was exposed to the light, golden and glowing.
Arturo struggled to dampen his response to the sight, but it was of no use. His body reacted as it wished, forcing his hips from the floor as release shattered through him. Isidora collapsed atop him, pressed her face into his neck. It took an absurd effort, but he managed to lift his arms around her and turn his mouth to her ear.
“Do you believe me?” he whispered.
Her body shuddered; he felt the spill of tears against his skin. “Yes,” she breathed.
Gently, he lifted her face until he could look her in the eyes. Without a thought for anything but what lived in his heart, he said, “Let tomorrow bring whatever it will. Right now, today, is all that matters. Be my wife, Isidora.” Her eyes widened in shock and tears trailed down her face. He kissed the salt from her cheeks, pulled her close to him, burying his face in her hair.
“Say yes, my love.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Not three hours later, nine people gathered in Damáskenos’ small chapel of the God. The six witnesses stood in silence as Finnéces led the marriage ceremony. Princess Serephina was smiling whimsically at the couple who were stumbling nervously over their vows. Beside her, Duke Alvar dabbed repeatedly at his eyes and nose with a kerchief. Neither Diego nor Edan made any move to quench the tears that ran down their faces. Both were perfectly content to sniff loudly every few moments, earning them not a few glares from Finnéces.
The final witnesses stood just behind the others. Lucero Tuturro was clasping his son’s hand tightly, for he knew Hadrian’s heart belonged to Lady Fiannan and was sorry for his pain.
His own heart, however, was bright with joy for the two pledging themselves to one another. There was no event he could imagine enjoying more on the eve of war than the marriage of two people who were so obviously in love.
There was deeper emotion within him as well, that encompassing gratitude felt when a selfless wish finally bears fruit. For so long he’d prayed for Arturo’s happiness, fervently wishing that something of the youth he’d known would return, restore the passion and life that had been crushed by his king’s betrayal. In the end, the last Lady of Alesia had found Arturo’s heart, unknowingly cut through the bonds of indifference and brought it beating to the surface.
Now Lucero had a new prayer, which he offered solemnly to the God as the ceremony drew to a close. Let them live through this war, and someday find peace. And though he no longer had eyes with which to see, his tear ducts remained, and the strip of cloth tied about his face slowly dampened.
*
Serephina sat before the modest vanity in her bedchamber. Alone in the last hours before the arrival of the veiled-ones, she fretted over her appearance as young women are wont to do; except perhaps more so, as she was preparing to present herself for the first time as Queen of Tanalon before a foreign prince and his army.
Staring into the mirror, Serephina watched the play of emotions across her face. Better to let them rise to the surface now, she mused, for there was no telling when, if ever, she would be allowed to indulge in such weakness again. She did not mourn the idea as some might, for from the time she could walk and speak her first words, her father had been methodically, painstakingly preparing her for this day.
She could not truly mourn what she had never known.
There was no proper gown or jewels for this eve, nor did her face boast the vivid makeup appropriate for public appearances. Earlier in the week she’d surprised the duke by refusing his offer of a seamstress, preferring instead to wear the simply cut fashion she’d grown comfortable with. The long-sleeved tunic was dyed a deep green, belted at her waist and dropping to mid-calf over full, dark skirts. Her hair was likewise without adornment, braided loosely and held from her face by a simple golden circlet. It was the only piece of jewelry she had brought with her from Vianalon, and had belonged to her mother.
Arturo had returned her father’s ring, but as yet she could not bear to look at it.
A growing cacophony was rising from the courtyard below her room. She stood and walked to the open window, pulled aside a gossamer drape to look down. The setting sun caste a reddish glow over the scene, cutting sharp, surreal figures of the two men surveying the activity.
The duke’s boisterous laughter reached her ears as a solider running across the yard slipped on a cobblestone made slick with flower petals, knocking down a boy with milk pails balanced across his shoulders. The milk had barely spilled when several flustered maids ran from the keep with mops and buckets.
Fanning away to either side of the castle proper, the city’s visible balconies were thick with women and children, who giggled at the embarrassed soldier and continued to pluck flowers from their mother’s hands, tossing petals through the air. The maids paused to glower at the mess on the streets. Duke Alvar said somewhat to them; they blushed, laughing, and disappeared through the castle doors.
Standing beside the duke, Arturo was shaking his head in mirth as he watched the incident resolve itself. Presently, another figure joined the men, her hair burned red by the fadi
ng sun. A sad smile turned Serephina’s lips as she watched Arturo clasp Isidora’s hand, then lean close to whisper in her ear.
She wondered if, by the end of the evening, they would hate her.
*
Rodrigo Vasquez stood with his son atop the eastern wall, squinting at the line of torches snaking their way toward the castle. They were still some miles distant, looking like hundreds of tiny firebugs floating down the mountainside. There was no telling where the numbers of the army ended. They’d been watching for the better part of the day, since Eduardo had first sighted the thickening shadows of figures on the pass.
Diego Roldan had been the only other sentry to detect those first movements, and much to Eduardo’s lasting pride, had requested that the youth to keep his post as first lookout on the eastern rampart. Rodrigo kept company with his son, his hand firmly braced on Eduardo’s shoulder, as they watched the coming army with hope of vengeance to come in their hearts.
Every few minutes a guardsman would approach, and Eduardo would give a new estimate of the numbers of veiled-ones. The guards, under specific orders, would not tarry, but took the information forthwith to the duke.
Though a part of Rodrigo greatly wished he were in the company of the duke and his council, he rested on the knowledge that he stood at the forefront of history untold. It was enough that he would be able to offer his sword and his life to the rightful Queen of Tanalon, to take as many Church Soldiers to the Beyond as he was able before his death.
Lost in his thoughts, Rodrigo didn’t notice at first when his hand slipped from Eduardo’s shoulder. Then he heard a hiss of breath, and saw that his son had leaned forward against the low wall.
“Father, look!”
Rodrigo followed the line of his son’s finger, down to the ground just outside Damáskenos’ moat. There, camouflaged by the night, barely visible as disruptions of space in the darkness, a small band of figures moved stealthily toward the extended drawbridge.
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