The final observer did not appear until early evening that day.
It began with sound from the forests: the howling of wolves. Gertrude wept with fear while Gerard sank to his knees and prayed. Only Eduardo was brave enough to run to the ramparts. There, his uncommonly keen sight discovered a strange depression in the valley, a great circle of disturbed earth that had not been present an hour earlier.
Soon a deep rumbling joined the wolves’ song. Thousands of birds took flight from the forests and keep, darkening the sky with their wings. Eduardo clung to the stone wall, frozen with terror as the entire fortress began to shake. Stones ground against each other, sending mortar dust in clouds from the walls. From the houses below he heard women screaming, the sound soon swallowed by a growing roar.
Suddenly it was quiet.
Eduardo straightened his trembling legs, ashamed of the tears that dampened his face. Wiping his cheeks roughly, he peered again into the valley. At first, he thought the quake had opened a great, dark chasm in the ground.
Then the darkness moved.
A giant head lifted from near Damáskenos’ dry moat, black eyelids slitting open on blazing golden irises and thin, diagonal pupils. The massive form moved again, muscles rippling, long forked tail slicing through the air. Dirt slid in waves from its body. Darkly metallic scales were exposed to the light, glinting like pewter with prisms of color trapped within.
Immobilized with renewed terror and awe, Eduardo watched as the beast struggled. The long neck arched, razor-like teeth snapping at the sky. Finally, it roared success in a multi-tonal voice, a noise so foreign and jarring that Eduardo screamed, clapping his hands over his ears.
The fortress trembled as clawed feet found purchase, stomping craters in the ground. Massive, leathery wings exploded from the beast’s spine in a spray of blood and bone. Its chest heaved, head drooping with pain. With a final mewling sound, it dropped back to the ground.
Eduardo became aware of himself weeping loudly. The harder he tried to stop, the greater and more wracking his sobs became.
Do not be afraid, youngling, a voice whispered sibilantly.
He jerked at the voice, fingers fumbling for the hilt of his sword. “I will not let you kill her!” he screamed.
Cease! the beast roared. Eduardo froze, peered through his tears at the golden eye uplifted toward him. The woman who ssleeps is dear to me. No danger sshall near her, no weapon sshall touch her. Will you guard her with me, Eduardo Vassquez?
Dazed, he nodded, hands falling limply to his sides. “What are you?”
The dark pupils dilated, galaxies upon galaxies of stars spinning in their depths.
I am First and Last of the Derkesthai, answered the dragon. I am domhain lár, Calabria’s heart.
Chapter Thirty-two
High Cleric Luther Viccole was much relieved that the day was near finished. The leaders of the Noble Houses were a constant annoyance, battering him with endless queries and concerns. The older, stauncher generation harassed him with their opinions on everything from taxes to trade. Younger dukes and barons debated issues more mundane, full of false bravado as they argued whose House should be stationed where on the field of war.
Luther pretended attentiveness to whomever’s voice was the loudest at any given time. He nodded and murmured appropriate responses, all the while gleefully imagining their horror when his first decree as king was to abolish their class.
Despite the torture of his days, evenings were a balm. At sundown he led services for the common people, seamlessly weaving sermons with themes of nationality, equality, and the need of the common man for guidance by a firm, fatherly hand. After the services he retired to his study for meditation and prayer, as was befitting his station. The guards stationed within and outside the doors were among his most loyal, and assured that he received no unwanted petitioners.
The High Cleric’s evening communion with the God was an intentionally widespread rumor through the city and palace. The people were soothed by his humility, the nobles resentful but unwilling to risk public humiliation by calling him out.
It was an ideal time of repose for Luther, but not, as the masses believed, of the pious sort.
Directed to use concealed routes and a concealed door, the army’s foremost scouts and commanders reported each evening. Since the charade in Thieves Alley and the subsequent hangings, his men consistently took great measures to please.
To his credit, Luther was no longer so quick to punish unwelcome news.
In addition to issuing orders and strategizing, once a week he met with Ummon and his son. It was never a comfortable meeting, for the veiled-one had ever unnerved him. The man’s utter lack of human feeling, though a valued asset, was difficult even for Luther to digest. More repugnant by far than the assassin’s empty eyes, however, was the presence of his son.
Regret was an emotion Luther had long decided pointless, as was pity. For the child of his body he felt only disgust and anticipation for the time when his usefulness was at an end. It was becoming bothersome to keep up the pretense of paternal care, especially when the boy only reported failure after failure.
The Lady Fiannan of Alesia was still alive, the Stone of Beginning safe in her pocket. It’s impossible to retrieve, the child whined, on his knees beside Luther’s chair. Ten-thousand veiled-ones surrounded the sorceress and her amulet in Damáskenos, and would sense their approach miles away. Impossible was not a word Luther tolerated, though he’d swallowed the urge to smash the boy’s head repeatedly against the edge of his desk.
Reliving the memory, and the fury, Luther slammed his fist onto the desk, surprising a startled yelp from his current guest. The man had arrived in the city two weeks prior and since then had occupied a particularly rank prison cell.
Despite horrible treatment and loathsome conditions he had not broken under torture, maintaining that he was a sinless Borgetzan ambassador. Finally, after receiving word from the torturer that death was the only option left for his craft, Luther ordered the prisoner bathed.
There was not much to be done about the Borgetzan’s filthy attire or the many visible bruises and abrasions—both ears scabbed where lobes had been—but at least his face and hands were scrubbed clean. Dark hair was swept from a high forehead and combed wetly. Beneath thick brows sat deeply set eyes, their gaze never staying in one place long but continually sliding.
Minus two weeks of torture without a shave or decent meal, Franco Santiago was a near image of his elder brother, Juan, who’d had the misfortune of dying mysteriously in Vianalon this spring.
“Please, have more wine,” Luther drawled, delighting in the fear in his guest’s eyes, the violent shaking of his hand as he lifted the glass.
Franco took a quick sip, licking cracked lips. “It is a lovely vintage.”
It amused Luther to think that he struggled against the desire to gulp it down and the equally compelling fear that it was poisoned. “There are many other, less expensive ways to kill you,” he said, smiling kindly. “Poison is not my forte… unlike King Terrin’s mistress, Lenora di Salvatoré.”
The man’s swallow was audible. He set the glass carefully on the desk, as if it might shatter upon contact. With nothing to offer on the subject of his king’s lover, Franco demurred, “Thank you for allowing my appeal, your Eminence.”
In the spirit of dialogue, Luther said engagingly, “I admit I was intrigued by your letter. I’m terribly sorry it has taken so long to arrange a meeting. I do hope your accommodations weren't terribly unkind.” The Borgetzan bowed his head, but not fast enough to hide a flash of contempt. “Do tell me, Ambassador Santiago, what exactly King Terrin has in mind.”
At last given a means to voice his true purpose, Franco straightened in his seat. Luther had to admire his dedication, for he was likely in much pain.
“His majesty’s foremost wish is to avoid bloodshed,” he be
gan. “He requests the disarmament of Tanalon’s forces pending his arrival and upholds that no murder shall be done to any member of the Noble Houses.”
“Very kind of him,” Luther agreed.
Warming to his subject, Franco continued, “The Church will remain unmolested, of this you may be assured. In fact, his majesty offers a generous tribute to the God’s coffers.”
Luther clicked his tongue chidingly. “The wealth of the God is found in the faithful heart, my son.”
“Of course,” Franco amended quickly. “Though the servants of the God may further His cause with gold enough to build a thousand churches, no?”
Luther grinned, leaning forward to steeple his fingers beneath his chin. “Indeed.” Franco smiled broadly, displaying small white teeth with several notable gaps where the torturer’s clamp had fastened. “Continue, please.”
The ambassador gave a small bow. “Lastly, his majesty offers an appointment of Regent to a native of Tanalon. This position would not be limited to the nobility, but open to men of faith such as yourself.”
Pretending to miss the bait, Luther queried with surprise, “He does not want to be king of Tanalon?”
Franco flushed, his smile faltering. “Well, yes, of course. His majesty would be king, though he would maintain his stronghold in Seizo. Tanalon would become a territory of Borgetza.”
Luther gazed idly at the sputtering flame of a candle on his desk. It was moments such as these that made his blood sing. He allowed a full minute more of silence before looking up. When he did, it was to see beads of sweat visible on Franco’s receding hairline.
With a bland smile, he said, “These are generous offers, Ambassador Santiago. Having considered them most carefully, I will decline.”
Franco jerked in his seat. “But—your Eminence, you’ve hardly had the time to consider—”
“Do not insult me, boy,” he snapped.
Franco dropped back listlessly, understanding dawning in his eyes. He knew now the cleric had never intended to negotiate. The only desire left to him was that he would die here, in Tanalon, rather than present his defeat to Terrin. No torture at the enemy’s hands could be worse than the fate that awaited him upon the king’s displeasure.
With nothing to lose he made a final effort, appealing not to the Church’s pocket but to the cleric himself, a man of holiness. “I beg you, your Eminence, to reconsider his majesty’s offer for the sake of your people. War will be avoided. Tanalon will remain at peace, with you as Regent. You would be a king in everything but title, with power to effectively guide the spiritual wellbeing of your congregation.”
“And break this kingdom paying exorbitant tithes to Borgetza,” Luther said dismissively.
Nonplussed, Franco shrugged. “Yes, there will be taxes, but you will have enough gold to pay tithes for eternity and still build your thousand churches. Think of the benefits. With King Terrin as your liege, you would be invited to spread your doctrine throughout both states. Mayhap, with the merging of our armies, the entire peninsula could be united under God.”
“Ah,” Luther sighed, “and now we reach the heart of the issue.”
Franco felt a brief stirring of hope. “Your Eminence?” he questioned.
“You see, my son, Terrin and I wish for the same thing. The unity of this peninsula under God. No Argenta, no Dunak. In fact, no Tanalon or Borgetza. Just Calabria, under one ruler.”
“It can be done!” he exclaimed expectantly.
The cleric smiled slightly. Whether it was a trick of the candlelight or Franco’s imagination, he saw something terribly sinister in the man’s eyes. He was suddenly glad that, to his knowledge, Luther Viccole did not perform tortures personally.
“It will be done, my son, only Terrin will not wear an emperor’s crown.” The holy man’s smile widened. “Calabria will stand together under the rule of the Church.”
Franco opened his mouth, drew breath as if to speak. Instead he made an odd, gurgling noise. He began to frantically attack the laces at his throat. Unable to breathe, his eyes bulged from their sockets, fingernails digging bloody channels in his neck and chest. His legs stiffened, feet scrambling on the carpet. A violent contortion threw his chair back. There was a ripe thud as his skull hit the stone floor just inches from the rug’s end.
When the pitiful burbling ceased, Luther stood and walked around the desk to stare down at the swollen, grotesque features, the slowly widening pool of blood. “I will wear Calabria’s crown,” he told the dead man. With a disdainful kick at the man’s leg, he snarled, “Waste of money.”
The High Cleric straightened his robe and passed his fingers through his hair, careful to arrange it over his severed ear. When he looked up, his composure was in place. He gave the two guards the blessing of his compassionate gaze. “Please, my sons, arrange for removal of the head. Wrap it in silk and find a nice package for it.”
The guards regarded the cleric with cool, impassioned eyes. With a vein of anticipation not quite concealed in his voice, one asked, “And where will we take the package?”
“To Tuscena, of course. Throw it over the border at Terrin.” With a strange giggle, the High Cleric added, “Aim for his whore.”
*
King Manuel di Lucía was jerked from light sleep by a scream.
For a moment he did not know his surroundings. He felt hard ground beneath his back, barely buffered by a thin bedroll. All of this was not unusual, as he spent many weeks of the year leading hunting parties through Argenta’s difficult terrain.
They were not trips of leisure but hard days and cold nights tracking such beasts as the native boar, possessed of great speed and tusks that could embowel a man with one swipe. Last season, his young nephew Eriko had been on the wrong end of those ivory skewers. Bringing the news to his sister had been deeply upsetting, the memory still painful.
It was a disturbing thought to have upon waking. He had not thought of his nephew in months. He and his men had done all they could to save the boy, who had unwisely dismounted in the path of the beast. Eriko had presumed himself immortal, as all young men did on their first hunt. Small injuries were usually arranged to discount the most inflated egos. Some, however, were not arranged or foreseen, and often ended with disaster.
Manual groaned as he sat up. Recently, he’d begun to feel the full fifty-one years of his life. His muscles complained in the evening, joints swelling at the merest touch of cold. He no longer joined his captains in their vigorous morning runs. Instead, he’d begun spending more time with his wife, Carmen, a small, lively woman with gray just starting to spread through her raven hair.
It had been an arranged marriage, as most were, and in their years together he’d hardly considered her past her ability to give him a son. But Victor was grown now, no longer requiring the steady attentions of a father. Released from his foremost duty, Manual had found himself in the strange circumstance of falling in love with his wife after twenty-eight years of marriage. He smiled in the dark as he thought of the maidenly blush that stained her cheeks when he brought her pleasure.
He was still smiling softly when torches neared his tent. “Majesty,” spoke a man urgently. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” Manual grunted. He heaved himself to his feet and pushed through the flap. “Get that light out of my eyes!” The torch swung low, revealing the face of one of his captains. “Rafe, what the devil was that unmanly noise?”
Rafe’s mouth moved soundlessly. He fell to his knees, gasping as if in panic. “Maj—Majesty, your son…”
Manual grabbed the man by his collar and lifted him to his feet. The myriad aches of his aging body were gone. “What—about—my—son?” he hissed.
“He cannot breathe, sire,” spoke Gustav the Red, oldest of his captains. He’d been a playmate of Manual’s youth, was as close as a brother. Manual stared at Rafe’s agonized, reddened face and ab
ruptly released his collar. The man fell in a heap at his feet.
He spun on Gustav, who stood with five more captains at his back. Torches were blossoming across the army’s extensive encampment. Calls of treachery echoed through the night. Soldiers sprinted through the narrow space between tents, leapt over the stirring bodies of their fellow soldiers as they sped outward to strengthen the sentry.
Gustav looked at his friend and king, saw his confusion and rising fear, and wished the words did not have to be said. But dissembling had never been a skill for him.
“Victor is murdered. Stabbed through the heart. No weapon was left. The assailant was seen leaving the prince’s tent.” Gustav drew a breath, for the next words were by far the worst, “It was a veiled-one, sire.”
Manual stood still as a statue. Finally, he asked, “How did they know—” and then halted, for he knew, and saw the knowledge reflected in the eyes of his men.
The standard of Argenta had flown over his son’s tent, while he, the king, had slept in an anonymous tent among his captains. “Dear God,” he gasped. His knees felt weak and he reached for Gustav’s shoulder. In his mind he pictured Carmen’s face, ravaged with grief, blaming him for the death of their son.
His friend seized his arm in a firm grip, stepping close so that the men did not see their king’s tears. “The soldiers have already begun talk of Serephina’s veiled-ones. Word spreads like a brushfire, my liege. They whisper of the queen’s treachery.”
Gustav sighed in relief as Manual drew back, his expression thunderous. “Ridiculous! She would be undermining all possibility of victory with my death. Ten-thousand veiled-ones or no, the army of the Church is thirty-thousand strong. Not to mention the manifold threats of Borgetza. Serephina needs us.”
“I agree,” Gustav said, nodding. “We must put a stop to the rumors.”
The Gardens of Almhain Page 32