The sumptuous, exotic furnishings of his Dunak residence seemed very far away.
Gerard opened the rightmost door, gesturing impatiently at the veiled-ones. Though it was brief, Ezekiel caught a flare of surprise in the former Master’s eyes. He met the man’s gaze and nodded discreetly. The veiled-ones shared an inscrutable glance before filing into the room.
Gerard cleared his throat again, a nervous tick, it seemed, before opening the other door and proceeding Ezekiel within. The chamber, though large, was furnished simply with a desk, dresser, and a wide canopied bed standing against the far wall. Set beneath the bed and spreading halfway across the room was the only luxury presented, a thick, soft rug of forest green.
Firelight from the hearth caste a bright, warm glow, reinforced by shining glass lamps mounted in intervals along the walls. To his right was a bay of narrow windows, one pane among them opened to lend a fresh, pine-scented breeze.
As the chamberlain disappeared through a narrow door, likely the bathing room, Ezekiel walked to the open window and looked out. His room faced east and boasted a view of the Kilcaran range. Though the peaks were indecipherable in the night, they were given ethereal distinction by the tiny, glittering stream of torches as the army marched on.
Gerard’s voice jolted him from reverie, “Your bath is prepared, your highness.”
“Thank you,” he replied, turning. The man gazed calmly at him as he hesitated, suddenly and acutely aware of his state of dress. “Is there perchance…” He trailed off, discomforted by making further demands.
Gerard’s thin lips stretched in an unexpected smile. “Leave your clothing near the door. I will send a maid to wash and return them to you.” At Ezekiel’s puzzled expression, he added, “Your boots and cloak may be brushed clean, but your other garments we will find suitable replacements for.”
Immensely relieved he would not have to don his filthy clothing again, Ezekiel bowed. “Thank you, kind sir,” he said meaningfully. Gerard blinked, cleared his throat as if disturbed by his deference, and made haste from the chamber.
By the time Ezekiel emerged from the bath, a maid had returned his boots and cloak. Atop the bed was a long-sleeved black tunic and matching trousers. He dressed, pleased and surprised to find the dimensions well suited to his form. Running fingers through his short, damp hair, he mused that despite its lack of opulence, Damáskenos had certainly found a rare gift in his chief chamberlain.
His opinion was confirmed as, when he was halfway to the door, the entrance opened on Gerard. The man looked him up and down, then nodded approval. “Come with me, please,” he said.
The veiled-ones occupied the small antechamber. They’d declined the offer of new attire, of course, but the worst of the travel stains had been removed from their cloaks and headdresses.
Opposite them stood two of the duke’s barbarian honor guard, the same who’d escorted them earlier. From their vacant expressions and piercing dark eyes, it was impossible to tell whether they guarded the exit or blocked it. Either way, they had succeeded in their intent, for the irritation of the veiled-ones was palpable.
Gerard sighed loudly. “Enough theatrics,” he said exasperatedly. It was a peculiar sight, the lanky, smaller man shoving and prodding until the guards were finally irked enough to step aside.
With a grunt of success, Gerard opened the door and moved into the hallway. One of the guards quickly followed, shifting his bulk with surprising agility. A pair of veiled-ones moved smoothly before Ezekiel, the others forming a loose semicircle at his back. Thusly reassured of security, he strode after the rapidly diminishing figure of the chamberlain.
As they neared the stairs, Ezekiel murmured beneath his breath, “I do not think the barbarians mean us ill.”
He wasn’t sure the former Master of Knives had heard him, but then came the whisper, “We cannot read their hearts.”
To that, Ezekiel could think of no rejoinder.
The walk was long, and despite the soothing bath, he found himself wincing with every step. A nerve in his back was radiating pain down his spine. The raw skin of his feet chaffed against his boots in new ways, as if in punishment for the illusion of reprieve.
As they passed the keep’s entrance and walked up another long flight of stairs, he decided that he was ten leagues past the need for food. He only hoped the queen did not expect an engaging audience; somehow, he knew that was exactly what she would demand.
Finally, Gerard came to a halt before double doors. The foremost guard knocked loudly on the wood, the sound echoing down the hallway. As they waited for a response, Ezekiel glanced back along the corridor.
It occurred to him then that they’d not passed a living soul.
The doors creaked as they were opened from within, spilling light and sound. On the threshold stood a man—it was he who had taken the queen’s arm in the courtyard. Gathered around long tables in the great hall beyond looked to be a majority of Damáskenos’ population. The initial din of voices and clanking dishes had subsided dramatically.
Whisky colored eyes passed over their company before coming to rest on Ezekiel. He straightened under the scrutiny, forcing his shoulders back and uplifting his chin. Exhausted he was, and sore beyond suffering, but he was still first of the princes of Dunak.
“Welcome to Damáskenos, Prince Ezekiel ibn Dukari,” spoke the stranger. “I am Arturo Bellamont, commander of the Queen’s army.”
Ezekiel heard the rustle of cloth as the veiled-ones exchanged glances. His own mind was spinning, placing legend with the face of the man before him.
Black Bellamont.
“We met once,” he continued, “when I visited Dunak for a time, some years ago.”
A hazy memory confronted Ezekiel, of standing behind his father’s throne as a young, foreign man had kneeled. Then his father’s words, after, when Ezekiel had questioned the king’s offering of hospitality.
Better he friend than foe.
Indeed, Ezekiel mused now, thinking of rumor and legend, of a Borgetzan prince found dead in his bed.
“Well met, again, Arturo Bellamont.”
Through the doors, he glimpsed hundreds of faces peering back at him, silent and intent. On the far side of the hall stood Tanalon’s queen. Mindful of his audience, of his father’s thoughtful words, Ezekiel extended his hand in friendship to Black Bellamont.
Strong fingers clasped his, eyes crinkling as he smiled. He leaned close, hiding Ezekiel’s view of the hall. “Your father was kind to me. I am sorry for his passing.” Before Ezekiel could respond, he stepped back, turning his sharp gaze on the line of veiled- ones. “Step forward, that I might know you by your eyes.”
The former Master spoke, “To see our eyes is death, unless you name yourself friend.”
Bellamont smiled slightly. “By the light of the stars on the sands, I am friend to you.”
The veiled-ones took a step forward, emerging from the shadows of the corridor in a way that had ever unsettled Ezekiel. Bellamont met their gazes one by one, nodding greeting to each. “Tomaz, Gidon, Jeb, Muraz, Sival,” he named.
Heads bowing briefly, together they replied, “Bellamont.”
Enacting a custom Ezekiel had never witnessed, the former Master—Tomaz, he now knew—bent a knee to the ground. The movement of his hand was so fast, so smooth, that by the time the duke’s guardsmen responded, a knife had sailed forth and hit its intended target.
The hilt bobbed merrily, its polished silver winking with firelight. The shaft was embedded less than an inch from Bellamont’s feet.
Inside the hall there was pandemonium as hundreds of voices cried out. The guardsmen gave a piercing cry and tore free their swords. Bellamont’s laughter froze them mid-step. “Peace, Ghali, Otieno!” he said, still laughing as he bent, yanked free the knife from the ground.
Tomaz had not moved; his gaze was trained not on the guards bu
t on Bellamont. Though Ezekiel had never seen the former Master laugh, it seemed that his eyes twinkled, that beneath the veil he grinned.
Bellamont turned in the doorway, lifted the knife to show those gathered. The murmurs softened, grew speculative and pitched with relief. As he turned back there was a flash of light. That was all Ezekiel saw before he heard the thunk of the knife again, impaling the ground between Tomaz’s booted feet.
This time, the laughter of the veiled-ones was audible.
“Welcome to Tanalon, Children of Calabria,” Bellamont said.
The line of veiled-ones bowed low as their ancient name was spoken. As they rose, Tomaz said, “Our Master sends his greetings, wishes you to know that he will join us when he is able.”
Bellamont asked in smooth, empty voice, “And who is Master?”
“Devlin al’Ven is Master of Knives.”
Surprise softened Bellamont’s aristocratic composure, made him look younger and more fallible. He recovered with a brief, contemplative nod, then swept his arm toward the hall. Looking once more at Ezekiel, he said, “Enjoy the generosity of Damáskenos, your highness.”
It seemed to be a sort of cue, for as Ezekiel was led by Gerard across the threshold, all those gathered within rose from benches and began to clap. Softly, at first, then louder, as they raised their voices in yells and whistles until the very walls seemed to vibrate with the noise.
Across the hall stood the queen, and she was smiling.
*
Late that evening, as the wax candles burned low in Duke Alvar’s conference room, Arturo sipped from a mug of tea and looked discreetly over its rim at Serephina. She had seemed distracted this evening, though he could hardly blame her. It wasn’t every day that a queen usurped from her throne invited a foreign army to retake it.
“What do you think of him?” he asked, setting his cup on the great oak table.
Serephina looked up, blinking, then shrugged a narrow shoulder. “I think our Dunak prince is not entirely certain why he is here.”
Alvar, slumped in his chair at the table’s head, chuckled softly. “A valid assessment, your highness. Why did you not question him further?”
Serephina shrugged again. “He has been walking for weeks. The least I can do is offer him a night’s recuperation.”
Alvar grunted noncommittally, then mused aloud, “I wonder if the prince believes he leads the veiled-ones, or they lead him.”
Arturo replied, “I have no doubts as to that. It would be great folly to presume himself leader of the Children. I do not think our prince is that large a fool.”
At his words, Alvar sat a little straighter in his chair, while Diego and Ignacio turned from the glowing hearth. It was Serephina who spoke, though, her dark gaze speculative. “You called them the ‘Children of Calabria’ earlier this eve. Do you care to explain that title, or will you allow your queen her ignorance?”
“Well spoken, your majesty,” said Hadrian Visconte, quietly proud. The cleric, seated beside the queen, looked at Arturo with a sardonic smile. “Shall I?”
Arturo nearly asked how it was that he knew the meaning of the obsolete title, when he himself had not known it until the Nameless had told her long story. Then he recalled Isidora’s daily sessions with Hadrian in Damáskenos’ library, and some of the first words he’d heard her speak.
For remembering.
And he recalled, too, his own challenge their first night in Vianalon. Once you have found your scribe, once the fall of Alesia is recorded and its scroll locked away to rot, what will you do?
The bitter words they’d exchanged that night seemed long ago, separated from the present by a tide of change from which neither of them had been immune. Thinking of his wife, and of his rapidly waning wedding night, Arturo nodded at the cleric. “Please,” he said.
Diego and Ignacio exchanged glances, then moved to chairs. There were some things a man inherently knew he should hear while seated. When they were comfortable, Hadrian began his own telling of the origin of Dunak, of Istar and Anshar’s beloved Children.
In a voice practiced in recitation, the cleric spoke fluidly of domhain lár, the sacred Taproot and heart of the land, which had summoned the birth of the Gods. He spoke of the Great Forgetting and the Second Age of Chaos, and what the Nameless had revealed lay behind the Gates of Beyond.
“Dragons?” Diego interjected.
Hadrian only smiled and continued, telling them of the breaking of Istar’s line, the exodus to Alesia, and the distinction of mystics over centuries. Alesians, who had once been called Calabria’s Children, and the veiled-ones, who had been their brothers and sisters.
All of what he said was a death sentence, had he been speaking within earshot of the Church or its followers. Still, the cleric was unhesitant in speech as he proclaimed the greatest blasphemy of all, “It is my sincerest belief that domhain lár is extending Its will once more, here and now, to bring together a nation of people, mystics among them, to overthrow evil and restore harmony to the land.”
For a long time, no one spoke.
Then, unable to dampen his surprise, Arturo asked, “And Isidora agrees?”
Hadrian’s gaze fell to the table. “I have not discussed my belief with the Lady Fiannan.”
A chill crept along his scalp, raising hairs. “And what role do you suppose Isidora plays in this reclaiming?”
The cleric looked up, expression guarded. “She holds a very piece of domhain lár in her possession, a key to unlocking the Gates of Beyond.”
“The amulet,” Ignacio murmured consideringly.
The sky was deeply dark above Damáskenos, stars obscured by heavy clouds. But though no moon shone, Istar still ruled the night and Isidora Fiannan had once been Her High Priestess.
Thus, no one knew of her presence until she spoke. Arturo, attuned to the sounds of silence, had felt her approach. He was the only one who did not gasp or cry out.
“I would not have disregarded your thoughts, Hadrian, but there is something you all must know. I have dreamed an uncommon dream.”
She stood near the hearth, the firelight making flames of her hair, flickering against the white of her fur-trimmed robe. “It could be that domhain lár fights more than ignoble men, the false doctrine of a Church. Perhaps… perhaps the land fights, too, the very Gods It birthed.”
There was a pregnant silence as her words sunk in. They all knew, suddenly, of what she spoke. It was not extrasensory instinct, or even intellect, though each of them was clever. It was in the way Isidora stood—a slight rounding of her shoulders, an inward curling of her arms—as if she bore again the weight of Alesia gone.
Serephina was the first to break the silence. “You mean to say that the Gods do not share domhain lár’s love of Calabria.”
Isidora’s head bowed suddenly and her knees gave. With no conscious memory of leaving his chair, Arturo was at her side, lifting her into his arms. She blinked up at him, brilliant eyes glazed with agony.
“My love,” he whispered.
“The Nameless came to me,” she said vacantly.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, then snapped open. She regained her verve, struggling in his arms until he set her down. He kept his arm deceptively loose around her waist.
“Whatever the wishes of the Taproot,” she said tightly, “the Gods’ do not agree. The Stone of Beginning has been growing warmer these last hours, since the arrival of the veiled-ones in Damáskenos. When I touched it last, it was nearly too hot for me to bear.”
“What does this mean?” Alvar demanded.
Isidora looked at the duke, and there was blue fire in her eyes. “I can only speculate that it heralds the opening of the Gates.”
“Isn’t that what we want?” Ignacio asked dubiously.
“No,” Hadrian said in a hushed tone. All could see the swift change in the cleric, who had
been so certain just moments before. “Unless we want the ancient wrath of deities on our heads.”
Serephina was sitting erect in her chair, hands splayed across the table. “Lady Fiannan, what must we do to prevent the Gates from opening?”
Isidora swallowed; with every passing minute, her features grew paler. “I was... told, in my dream, how to stall it. Just before I came, I attempted to do so. It worked, though my strength was greatly taxed.”
“Can you continue to keep them closed?” Ignacio asked.
“I have no choice,” she replied grimly, then turned her gaze to Serephina. “I do not know how long I will be able to maintain. I am no councilor to you, but still, I recommend immediate action. All might be for naught, but I hope…” she faltered, grew weak in Arturo’s arms. “Let the Gates open upon Luther Viccole and his allies, and perhaps the vengeance of the Gods will be assuaged.”
Isidora was dead weight in Arturo’s arms. Without a backward glance he carried her from the room, leaving the council mute and shocked.
At length, Serephina commented, “I no longer think, but know, that our Dunak prince is unaware of why he is here.”
“He is not alone in that,” said the duke, his grim expression barely eased by a tired smile.
Diego gave a loud, beleaguered sigh. “So I guess this means I won't be riding any dragons.”
Hadrian Visconte did not share in the strained laughter, but bowed his head over clasped hands. Gwendolyn’s ring bit deep as he beseeched his God for guidance, begged Him for mercy.
He spoke into the silence of the room, murmuring, “Mighty Anshar, let there remain a space of Your heart untainted by grief. Show us the path of righteousness, so that all that is good does not perish with all that is evil.”
Surprising them all, Alvar Damáskenos bowed his head, whispering, “Amen.”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 29