The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  “I will not pretend to understand, mistress,” Yimmel said with a sigh. “You Calabrians are a strange lot, from the veiled desert folk to the wily Argentans to the excesses of Borgetza. And Tanalon sitting prime to them all, with your Academe, hospitals, and Church.” He smiled softly. “In thirty years of offering my services to the peninsula, I’ve grown no nearer to understanding your cultures than I was at a boy of twenty.”

  He reached forward to lay a weathered hand atop hers. It was so long since she’d been touched in such a way that memories of her father surfaced, drew tears to her eyes.

  “I do know somewhat of your sibling Gods, my lady. My advice to you is to seek your solace with Them. I fear there is no human power that can answer the questions in your heart.”

  The Long Road stretched before her and behind, revealing itself as having always been present, always beneath her feet. She recalled Devlin’s words in Vianalon, how she’d rejected them outright. You ran because the enchantress made you run, because that, too, was destiny.

  He’d been right, of course.

  Lenora parted ways with Yimmel a short time later. As the sailors finally sought their bunks, and the ship slowly quieted, she lay atop the thin mattress and stared into the dark. She thought of Devlin al’Ven and the Long Road, and of the death of kings.

  By morning she knew what she had to do.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Damáskenos played barracks to its foreign army for one month. The warm season came late in the north, so while Vianalon was preparing much subdued midsummer festivities, the spring rains were just loosening their hold on Damáskenos. It was a long and waterlogged month of speculation and strategy, of egos brushing and exploding, of war councils ending with assaults on furniture and more than once, physical blows.

  There was dissension among Damáskenos’ extensive guard, young soldiers pressed ruthlessly to finish their training while seasoned men vied for dominance, each hoping to win positions of leadership. As tensions mounted and the loose chains of command faltered, Rodrigo Vasquez offered a solution. His plea was that for the sake of unity, the outdated custom of knighthood be reinstated.

  “Most of the guard,” he argued, “are experienced horsemen, bowmen, and are well accustomed to a variety of hand-to-hand weapons. Sword, knife, lance. They are also familiar with regimental war tactics. You have trained them for war, Duke Alvar. Give them the honor and distinction they deserve.”

  Though no one in the council room remembered the time when knighthood was a common incentive for soldiers, the custom appealed to them all. The duke spoke passionately of a distant ancestor who’d risen from humble beginnings to the title, and had been eventually awarded a duchy for his service. The tradition had dissipated several a generations prior, with the Church’s cultivation of an army that eclipsed that of the crown.

  It was Serephina who ended the meeting, saying, “Let them fight for House Caville, but let them fight as well for the promise of betterment, both for themselves and for their families. It is a new age, gentlemen, and we’ll treat it as such.”

  The entire guard of some thousand men, including refugees of Vallejo, was invited by public announcement to engage in a series of tests. Mufahti, leader of Alvar’s personal guard, and Arturo, as commander of the queen’s forces, sat as judges for three days.

  The contestants presented their weapons and combat skills, both in display and in carefully arranged combat scenarios. Finally the competitions moved from the main hall to the soggy arena, where the men demonstrated both their proficiency on horseback and their tolerance of mud. In the end, an even one-hundred men were knighted by the queen in a ceremony recreated from the pages of one of the library’s historical texts.

  A new concord began to flourish among Damáskenos’ men. Unfortunately, the mood did not extend to the ever-worsening animosity between the Duke’s personal guard and that of Prince Ezekiel. The veiled-ones chafed at the nearness of Mufahti and his men, whose hearts they could not read. The barbarians, sensing their unease, were not above baiting the veiled-ones at every opportunity.

  Given the conceit of the involved parties, the queen and Arturo despaired. The veiled-ones refused orders from any but Arturo himself, which did not bode well for a merging with King Manual’s forces. The Argentan cavalry, not to mention its renowned archers, were a commodity the queen could not afford to offend. When she was finally at wit’s end, she went to Ezekiel and demanded obedience of the veiled-ones.

  The foreign prince laughed. “Did you think I led them?” he asked, and was still grinning as the queen strode from his chamber, slamming the door.

  As much as she wished to use her new regency as leverage and command the veiled-ones herself, Serephina did nothing. Virtually confined to the keep because of the weather, she spent many of her free hours in the company of Hadrian Visconte. She learned much from the cleric, some of it difficult to reconcile. Her father had not raised her to be humble or patient. In this matter, however, she had no choice but to admit defeat and hope for the best.

  The Children of Calabria were not her army, after all. They were, as their ancient moniker expressed, Calabria’s.

  Though Serephina had achieved some equanimity with the issue, the duke finally reached the limits of his extensive patience. Taking matters into his own hands, he ordered Mufahti and Tomaz to spend a night locked in the same prison cell.

  After passing the same night sleepless with worry, Alvar unlocked the door, expecting to find one or both men dead. Instead, they merely rose from the floor and left the cell, walking in opposite directions.

  Nothing was said of what transpired between the two very different warriors. The veiled-ones still deferred only to Arturo but open hostilities ceased. It was even witnessed that Mufahti possessed one of Tomaz’s knifes, which he turned thoughtfully in his hands when he deemed no one was looking.

  In addition to the various troubles of servants screaming when veiled-ones appeared and disappeared as if by arcane trick, and the seemingly endless work of counting and preparing stores and building supply wagons to house them, there were other battles being waged on more private stages.

  The Lady of Alesia did not appear publicly very often, and when she did it was noted that her radiant beauty was substantially dimmed. Her bright eyes were now dull, her skin lackluster, and her grace diminished by heavy fatigue. It was feared that she was possessed of a strange illness, one which consumed like a fire from within.

  Those who knew the truth likewise knew of no remedy.

  Instead, their war councils grew ever longer. Tomaz offered the insights of thousands of spies seeded throughout Calabria. King Manual’s army was behind schedule. They were presently traversing the Wasteland, still two weeks from the rendezvous point agreed upon through a constant cycle of daring couriers.

  As yet, there was no word of Ummon, the rogue veiled-one in employ of Luther Viccole, or of the disfigured boy who was his father’s greatest weapon. It was as though they’d disappeared into the void from which they’d emerged.

  Reports from Vianalon were dour. The High Cleric commanded the Noble Houses and swayed the minds of the masses with impassioned speeches from the pulpit. The only news which might have been called welcome was that every able-bodied man in the country had been rounded up and herded to the capital. It seemed almost possible that Argenta would enter Tanalon unmolested, as the full focus of the Church was pointed east.

  The Borgetzan army had ceased advance and was camped just across the border near Tuscena, three days southeast of Vianalon. The details, however, ended there. The informant within King Terrin’s inner circle had died, not of treachery, but of old age on the march from Seizo. Though other veiled-ones moved within the Borgetzan army, it could be years before a replacement earned the trust of the suspicious king.

  There was one other rumor that reached them from Borgetza, a fact both flaunted by Terrin and used as
fuel by Luther Viccole in his sermons.

  Lenora di Salvatoré, former mistress of Terrin, had murdered Armando di Caville at her patron’s bequest and fled Tanalon. She was now ensconced within Terrin’s camp, rarely seen to stray from his side, and was accepted as his queen in everything but name.

  It had taken three days for the men to calm Serephina’s rage, to explain Lenora’s origins and true allegiance. The queen remained skeptical, but at least rescinded her vow of killing the woman herself.

  That selfsame evening, which was midsummer’s night, Arturo and Diego met to share memories and a flask of potent liquor, toasting the Mistress of Thieves Alley and her mad quest for vengeance.

  In time Diego nodded off, and Arturo left his friend for the chamber he shared with his wife, where he slumped into a chair beside the bed. Isidora slept fitfully, as she had every night since the first stirrings of heat from the Stone of Beginning. Her efforts to keep closed the Gates of Beyond had wasted her flesh, making hollows of her eyes and cheeks. Her golden hair was dry and brittle, her skin leeched of moisture no matter how much fluid she imbibed.

  Often in the night her breath would catch, and it would be moments, sometimes a minute before she breathed again. So attuned was he to the sound of her breath that every time it ceased he would jolt awake. He’d learned not to disturb her, however, for the only thing worse than his continual panic would be to rob her of the little rest she was able to have.

  Drunk as he was, this particular night Arturo did not waken when she stopped breathing, did not know that it was long minutes before her chest rose again. What finally stirred his slumber was dawn, slanting into his eyes from the eastern windows.

  He blinked blearily, stifled a groan as his body protested hours slouching in a straight-backed chair. The first thing he noticed was that Isidora was breathing normally, and he smiled with relief at the look of peace on her face.

  Forcing himself from the chair, he sat carefully on the bed. Usually at the movement, Isidora awakened. This morning she did not. Still unperturbed, he bent to kiss her brow. Her skin was cool and dry against his lips. He sat up quickly and laid his wrist against her cheek to make sure. It, too, was cool and dry.

  “The fever’s broken,” he whispered. He reached for her hand, brought it to his face. Still she did not rouse. “Isidora,” he murmured, squeezing her hand gently. “My love, wake up.”

  Her breathing remained at a slow, even cadence, as though she slept deeply. He shook her by the shoulders, rattled the bedposts, and still she did not awaken.

  Not a flicker of her eyelashes or a twitch of her fingers, not even when Finnéces, Diego, and Hadrian were brought running into the room by Arturo’s ear-splitting cry.

  Arturo stalked past the guards outside the queen’s chamber. He threw open the door, its crack against the wall drawing gasps from both Serephina and her companion, the prince of Dunak. Sometime in the last month, it had become ritual for the two of them to take breakfast together and spend an hour playing cards and conversing.

  The only other occupants of the spacious sitting room were Ezekiel’s guard. Tomaz’ dark eyes lifted from the floor, a twitch of a smile revealing his pleasure at the end to boredom.

  Arturo nodded to the veiled-ones, then bowed stiffly to his liege. “Forgive my interruption.”

  “Of course,” Serephina said calmly. She placed an uneaten strawberry back on her plate. “What’s amiss?”

  He kept his hands tightly clasped to disguise their shaking, spoke hoarsely, “Isidora will not awaken.”

  The queen straightened. “What?”

  Ezekiel carefully placed his napkin on the table. Looking between their stricken faces, he asked, “Has she succumbed to this strange sickness?”

  Every day for three weeks, Arturo had asked for immediate departure from Damáskenos based on his wife’s declining health. Every day, Serephina had denied his request, repeating that the timing was off, they must wait. Now, hand trembling over her mouth, she said helplessly, “Bellamont, I—”

  “Prince Ezekiel,” Arturo interrupted crisply, “My wife, the Lady Fiannan of Alesia, is in possession of the Stone of Beginning.” Ezekiel’s gaze flickered to the veiled-ones and back. “The amulet holds the awesome power of controlling the Gates of Beyond. The wrath of Anshar and Istar press against the Gates. My wife is the only thing keeping the destruction of Calabria at bay.”

  “Why wasn’t I told of this?” Ezekiel demanded. Serephina flinched but said nothing, staring at her lap. The prince stood abruptly, his chair screeching across the stone floor. “Tomaz, did you know?”

  The veiled-one’s voice was grim, “We knew of its location and caregiver, but it is not in our ability to sense the machinations of heavenly bodies, only those of the land.”

  Scowling, Ezekiel spun to Arturo. “Is she… alive?”

  “She sleeps but does not waken,” he snapped.

  There was a soft knock on the outer door. Serephina called out sharply, “Come!”

  All occupants started at the sight of the old woman standing in the doorway. Beyond her, the two guards sat slumped on the ground, snoring loudly. The visitor walked gingerly into the room, back bent by time, gnarled hands enwrapped with a length of ivory beads.

  “You!” Arturo hissed, taking a step toward the crone. “This is your doing!”

  The veiled-ones bowed to the floor in a whisper of robes, while Serephina looked wide-eyed at the woman and Ezekiel blinked in bafflement. He recognized the wizened face from the journey through the Kilcaran pass, recalled the clearing of the skies seemingly at her command.

  “Who are you?” asked the prince.

  “I am no one, Nameless.” Her dark, piercing eyes rested on Arturo. “The Lady Fiannan could no longer maintain her vigil while competing with the demands of waking life. She walks before the Gates now, for it is there she will succeed or fail.”

  “When will she awaken?” Serephina asked haltingly.

  “When, and if, she succeeds.”

  Arturo gave a hoarse cry, collapsing beneath the weight of his grief. Serephina darted from her chair and she knelt beside him. She touched his shoulder gingerly, felt the trembling in his back.

  With growing horror, she realized that Bellamont was weeping.

  “Leave us!” she yelled, flinging her arm toward the door. Ezekiel paused, hesitant to abandon the queen, but allowed the veiled-ones to guide him from the room.

  The crone stayed a moment more, watching with glistening black eyes. Serephina glared at her, impervious to her powers.

  “I said get out!”

  “The ending draws near, young queen. Be your father’s daughter and act without hesitation, without mercy. Let Lady Fiannan lie preserved in Damáskenos but take south the Stone of Beginning. It must pass into the hands of the High Cleric before the opening of the Gates.” She paused in the doorway, not bothering to look back. “Will you do this?”

  “Yes, yes,” Serephina stammered brokenly. “Leave, please!” The door closed softly and she draped her arms around Arturo, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” again and again.

  Later that day, three men led weary mounts across Damáskenos’ drawbridge. It was a peculiar group, one man as large as Mufahti, his proud features commanded by oddly catlike eyes. Another was whip-thin and small, his grin at the sentries revealing a flash of gold.

  The final traveler was the strangest. He wore the headdress of the veiled-ones but not their customary robes. As he dismounted, the wind lifted the edges of his cloak, revealing tens of knifes strapped across his chest and hanging from his belt. The glistening metal winked as clouds passed swiftly overhead, partnering dancing shafts of sunlight with shadow.

  Before the sentries could summon the duke, the doors of the keep opened and countless veiled-ones poured like smoke into the yard, surrounding the three horses. More disturbing than the silence of their arrival was
their deference. They knelt without regard for puddles or patches of mud and manure.

  Still the Children of Calabria came, drawn into the day by this man’s presence.

  When there was no inch of the courtyard or nearby streets not occupied by prostrate figures, the traveler spoke. “I have come.”

  “Master of Knives,” spoke thousands of voices.

  Devlin al’Ven looked across the yard, to the man standing alone on the threshold of the castle. “Arturo,” he said, as though no years had passed since last they’d stood face to face. And because he’d received a communication from Tomaz that morning, and had sought his own answers in the land, he said, “The Serpent of the Root is with her.”

  Arturo gave a short nod. “Welcome to Damáskenos, Devlin. Your arrival is well timed. We march for Vianalon at dawn.”

  It had taken ten-thousand veiled-ones six days to filter into the valley from the Kilcaran pass. Even with the addition of seven companies of two hundred men each, fifty supply wagons of foodstuffs, and hundreds of assorted personages—squires, cooks, pages, maids, scholars, and attendants—it took only three days for Serephina’s army to depart.

  The forth day dawned bright and clear on Damáskenos’ stone walls, against the iron of its drawbridge, over the valley of trampled fields and abandoned farms. The courtyard was empty, a swift breeze teasing the expected debris of so many passing people, horses, and wagons. The city streets were vacant, women and children closeted in prayer for brothers, fathers, husbands.

  The sole residents of the castle were gathered its highest chamber. Two men and one woman stood in the room around a large bed, watching the sleeping face of Isidora Fiannan.

  Gertrude sniffed, lifting her sleeve to her eyes. Damáskenos’ chamberlain, Gerard, took her shoulders in his arms and drew her close. Near the foot of the bed stood Eduardo Vasquez, who to his father’s shock had insisted on staying to guard the Lady of Alesia against any foe. He took his new role seriously, and wore his weapons even while he slept on a pallet outside her door.