The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  “They come,” Diego Roldan said needlessly. Arturo nodded, watched as a small group of men broke from the vanguard, turning their horses unerringly toward the northern hill.

  Serephina rubbed her hands together against the moist dawn air. Her quick breath sent puffs of mist from her mouth. Standing with her were Duke Alvar, Mufahti, Ignacio, and Ezekiel ibn Dukari, who watched the approaching Argentans with wary eyes.

  A courier had found them days ago, moving loudly and undisguised on the northwestern plains, had delivered a letter from Manuel di Lucía and departed again before its reading. Despite the king’s written support of Serephina’s innocence, they all wondered, and could not help but be anxious. Prince Victor di Lucía had been murdered while he slept in the midst of an army, and the assassin had been a veiled-one.

  The Master of Knives was the only figure standing somewhat apart from the rest, near to but not quite beside Arturo. Of the group only they appeared at ease, though their eyes stayed trained on the advance of horses. The light was enough now that they could count fifteen men astride, led by a herald who carried the royal standard of Argenta.

  Finally, Devlin’s eyes moved, glancing a question at Arturo. Bellamont nodded, and a message was sent through the land-bond. Moments later the eastern front of veiled-ones moved into action. The sea of black broke almost in two, flowing in wide rivers north and south. Their speed and fleetness of foot was such that in minutes, they had abandoned the east and formed a solid barrier against the advent of Argenta. The first regiments were still leagues away, closing fast at full gallop.

  “The cavalry will abolish them,” Mufahti muttered.

  Arturo spoke for the first time, “Unlikely,” he said, and Devlin smiled beneath his veil.

  Over the distant drumming of hooves, one pair grew distinct. A rider was approaching the hill from the encampment, cloak flapping and hair in wild disarray. Hadrian Visconte checked his steed some feet away, dismounting to lead the beast toward the others, who were grazing nearby, disinterested in politics.

  “I thought I might be of some service,” said the cleric. “I spent close to a year with the di Lucía’s and helped deliver one of Manual’s daughters.” Strained silence answered him, though the duke gave him a curt nod.

  “Here we go,” Diego murmured, hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

  The riders slowed and stopped fifty paces from the hill. With the exception of the youth who carried Manual’s standard, the men were armored and helmeted, visors lifted on hardened, weathered faces. Words were exchanged, tempers checked, and finally two riders broke forward at a canter.

  Arturo recognized Manuel from his brief foray into Argenta. It was only months ago that he and Diego had stood in the cold, drafty hall of the Argentan palace among its tall men and pale woman, and in particular one magistrate’s daughter. He wondered idly if she had ever admitted her role in the seduction or, more importantly, her lack of supposed innocence.

  Next to the king rode a barrel-chested soldier of middle years, though his ease in the saddle suggested the dexterity of a much younger man. Not by his face, but by the scarlet trimming of his cloak, Arturo placed him as Gustav the Red, Manual’s closest advisor and lead captain.

  The men halted ten feet away, dismounted lightly as though they had not been astride for days with only minimal stops to rest the animals. Manual walked first, a towering figure in the dawn, muddied boots leading to plain leather leggings and blouse. His bear-skin cloak was likewise without adornment, spilling heavy and dark from his broad shoulders.

  Serephina did not come forward to greet the king, electing to stay in Mufahti’s shadow. Manual’s dark eyes sized up the barbarian. In a grating voice he commented, “I’ve never seen a man with ink in his blood.”

  Startling everyone, Mufahti gave a great, bellowing laugh. “How many rabbits died for your cloak?” he asked, accented voice carrying mockery.

  Gustav the Red took a threatening step forward, was blocked by a careless lift of Manual’s hand. No one else moved, though Diego’s fingers tightened reflexively on his sword. “One rabbit,” said the king. “He was about your size and disposition.”

  Mufahti continued to grin. “It is well, then, that I do not have fur.”

  Manual’s lips quirked, gaze moving to the queen. She stood still and straight under his scrutiny, a light breeze coaxing wisps of hair across her brow. “I thought to win Tanalon for you, your majesty,” he said bluntly, “and marry you to my son so that, upon my death, our kingdoms would be united.”

  Serephina’s chin raised a fraction. “I would not have agreed, but never would I have wished for Victor’s death.”

  Manuel inhaled deeply and nodded. “I know. The price of my support has changed.”

  Serephina asked coolly, “And what do you require?”

  On the field below, the Argentan army loomed like a rising wave, showing no sign of slowing. Damáskenos was mobilizing fast, horses saddled and mounted, knights’ voices ringing loud and crisp as they commanded their men into formation. A stream of archers took position behind the veiled-ones, arrows aimed high and nocked loosely for release. Squires and pages ran the line, depositing stores and relaying orders.

  “I require vengeance for my son,” Manual answered. “The death of the veiled-one.”

  The tall, slim figure of the Master of Knives turned from his surveillance of the field. “It is my pleasure to assist you in that goal, your majesty,” he said, reedy voice monotone.

  Manual studied the visible portion of the veiled-one’s face, pale eyes and skin. “You do not have the coloring of the desert people,” he observed, with a pointed nod at Ezekiel.

  Devlin shrugged. “I am Master of Knives.”

  The king’s gaze shifted, narrowed speculatively on the prince. “And what does Dunak gain by assisting the queen?”

  “Nothing,” Ezekiel answered. “It is likely, even now, that one of my brothers has taken the ivory scepter.”

  “Then why are you here?” asked Manual, echoing the question that did not have an answer.

  The prince smiled blithely, glancing at the queen. “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Most interesting,” Manual said wryly. A snort of laughter came from Gustav the Red as the king’s restless eyes found Hadrian. “Cleric Visconte,” he acknowledged, and Hadrian nodded perfunctorily. “Duke Damáskenos.” Alvar bowed with courtly flourish. “And,” the king continued as he turned, “Black Bellamont.”

  Arturo did not bow, but said mildly, “If you do not wish to lose your army today, call them off.”

  The king said nothing for a long moment, studying the proud profile. “You have changed, Assassin des Viana.”

  Arturo nodded, still without looking at the king. “Give the signal, your majesty,” he said in the same, mellow voice.

  Manual raised his left hand skyward, fingers fisted. Horns echoed, horses reared, and the Argentan vanguard executed an impressive halt. Only then did Bellamont turn to the king and bow.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” Manual drawled.

  Clouds roiled, joining and dispersing on the sky’s canvas. Shadows played on Bellamont’s face, lending an unearthly golden glow to his eyes.

  “How much rest do your men and horses require?”

  For the first time, Manual looked to Gustav, who asked, “I assume we ride on Vianalon with all possible haste?”

  “You may assume that, yes.”

  Gustav grinned tightly, answering, “The day and the coming night to recuperate.”

  “Very well.”

  Manual, watching the exchange, gave an uneasy chuckle. “You do have a strategy, Bellamont, don’t you? Or will we waste away outside the capital’s walls until Borgetza slams us against them? The High Cleric would be pleased, I’m sure, if his enemies destroyed one another.”

 
The commander blinked, and again Manual was struck by the oddness of his eyes. “We have something Luther Viccole wants above all things,” he said cryptically. “Tomorrow we move east to cross the Viana by bridge. From there it is a week’s march to Vianalon.”

  “No one will stand in our way?” Gustav inquired.

  “All able men of Tanalon have been drafted to arms.” Bellamont smiled slightly. “Unless, of course, you are afraid of women and children.”

  “The only woman I’m afraid of is my wife,” Gustav replied offhandedly. “But what of the towns we pass? Are we to restrict looting?”

  “There will be no looting,” said Serephina de la Caville coolly. “Not a hair on one girl’s head is to be touched, not one field burned, not one home violated. Do you understand, sirs?”

  Gustav nodded, taken aback by the fierce and real threat in her voice. Manual murmured to his friend, “I suppose there are two women, now.”

  Gustav ignored the jibe and bowed to the queen. “As your majesty commands.”

  Serephina lifted her gaze to the western hill. “Your men will camp where they stand. Tonight, your majesty, you and your captains are invited to dine with us. Further questions you might have will be addressed at that time. Good day.”

  The queen strode to her white palfrey. Ezekiel assisted her to the saddle then mounted his own horse. They rode side by side down the hill. The duke, Mufahti, and Ignacio followed at a respectful distance.

  Manual turned lifted brows toward Bellamont. “I suppose the prince wants to be king.”

  The commander’s expression remained impassive. “Perhaps he merely wants the woman for herself,” he said, and strode away, mounting his horse and wheeling south with a skill that made Gustav whistle. The silent man with the scarred face followed, glaring at the king as he rode past.

  “What did I say?” Manual grumbled.

  The Argentans stood alone in the company of a veiled-one and a cleric. Hadrian Visconte cleared his throat. “Bellamont is recently married, your majesty, to the Lady Fiannan of Alesia.” He glanced at the still figure of the Master of Knives. “There is much of this war as yet untold to you, concealed from courier letters for your safety.”

  “Obviously.”

  Hadrian paused, choosing his words carefully, “The Lady Fiannan escaped the ruin of Alesia. The last of her noble line, she is perhaps the greatest mystic alive.”

  Gustav grunted as Manual cocked his head thoughtfully. Mystics were not unknown to the Argentans, for during the Year of Death they had accepted hundreds of refugees from King Armando’s wrath. Those descendents of Alesia had intermarried over the years, were now fully enmeshed in all manner of class and occupation. Honest to a fault and aloof to temptations of treachery, they were invaluable physicians, capable accountants, and successful farmers. Manual never hunted without at least one man with the power in his blood to predict turns of weather and locate watering holes.

  As such, he asked differentially, “The Lady does not travel with you?”

  Hadrian shook his head. “She was left in Damáskenos, gravely ill from battling forces not of this world. Forces that would destroy us and the enemy alike. That would leave the whole of Calabria a Wasteland.”

  Manual was annoyed, grief-stricken, and saddle-sore. The cleric’s words, though, lifted the hairs on his neck. He glanced at the veiled-one, saw that the blue eyes were steady on his own.

  “What forces?”

  Devlin al’Ven realized belatedly that the question was directed to him. He had been thinking of Arturo and his wife. And, as always, of Lenora, who also fought a private war. Since the death of his highest Borgetzan informant, word from Terrin’s camp was ineffectual. Lenora was rarely seen outside the king’s pavilion; what little was known confirmed all of Devlin’s worst fears.

  Distracted, he told Manual bluntly, “Lady Fiannan battles the Gods, who are opening the Gates of Beyond. They will wipe the stain of mankind from Calabria in vengeance for Alesia burned.”

  “What?” hissed Gustav.

  Beyond surprise, Manual asked softly, “Is there no one to help her?”

  The Master of Knives made a gesture, touching his fingers to his heart. “Calabria aids her,” he replied. “As it aids us all.”

  *

  That evening, while Serephina, Alvar, and Ignacio dined with Manual and his captains, Arturo stood alone on the same hill. His back turned on the light of hundreds of campfires, he gazed northeast toward Damáskenos.

  A voice spoke his name in the darkness; he had heard the whisper of Devlin’s approach. His friend moved soundlessly to his side, following the direction of his gaze. “Do you recall the story I told you, of that night in Vianalon when the Church came for Lenora?”

  “Yes,” he replied, still somewhat mystified that the Master of Knives had been the childhood companion of Lenora and Astin di Salvatoré. And more so, that they had grown up in Avosilea by the Sea, just miles away from the Galván family estate.

  “The myth of the Serpent of the Root is as vague as that of the Nameless,” Devlin continued. “The oral history of the veiled-ones speaks of the Serpent as a metaphor, not an actual being. It was believed that in the Second Age of Chaos, man destroyed the last of the Derkesthai.”

  “Forgive me, but what is your point?”

  Devlin lifted a hand to draw aside his veil. Breathing deeply, he savored the touch of air on his face. “The metaphor of the Serpent is closely tied with that of domhain lár. In fact, they are considered interchangeable.”

  “Your point,” Arturo grated.

  “Shenlith, who I awakened from a millennia long sleep, is domhain lár. The Taproot, the heart of the land, the pulse of life from which Dawn and Dusk emerged.”

  After long moments, Arturo replied in a new tone, “I see.”

  Devlin murmured, “He brought her back, my friend. Near dusk, this day, she awakened.”

  Arturo spun fast, grabbed hold of Devlin’s robes at the throat. Diego Roldan, who’d been keeping watch nearby without his partner’s knowledge, did not know whether the action had been allowed by the Master of Knives or had surprised him. He watched the two figures, near mirrors of height and build, and decided it was well they were not enemies.

  “What’s this?” Arturo asked with strain.

  “Isidora is recovering even as we speak,” Devlin replied calmly. “I have been asked to deliver a message. First, I require you to remove your hand.”

  Arturo jerked his arm back, stared at his hand as if it belonged to another man. He shook his head disarmingly. “I forgot myself.”

  “It is no matter,” Devlin said softly, thinking of Lenora. “I know how worried you have been.”

  Sensing something in his voice, Arturo looked up. “And who is it who worries you?” he asked, but did not require the answer. “Oh, Devlin. It is Lenora who has your heart.”

  “Calabria has my heart,” the Master of Knives said tersely. Then, so softly Arturo almost didn’t catch it, he added, “And yes, Lenora. It has always been so.” He swallowed, met his friend’s compassionate gaze. “Of all the men on the earth to love like this, we are surely the most unlikely pair.”

  Arturo’s teeth flashed in the darkness. “Agreed. Now give me the message.”

  “Look for her, three days hence.”

  Stunned, Arturo gasped, “Impossible,” and then remembered Devlin’s first words to him in Damáskenos. Shenlith is with her. “Impossible,” he repeated, but weakly.

  Devlin grin vanished beneath his veil. “Unlikely,” he corrected. “Astounding, even ludicrous. But not impossible.”

  As the veiled-one turned away, Arturo couldn’t help but ask, “And Lenora’s quest?”

  His friend halted, so silent and still that he blended into the darkness around him. Finally, he said, “The enchantress of Avosilea, who is the Nameless… I’ve told you of the L
ong Road, the pact we Avosileans made to escape the Year of Death?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lenora’s is the longest,” he said, and moved silently away.

  Arturo stayed a while more, thinking of Shenlith, who was also domhain lar, the land’s heart, whose needs had given birth to the Gods. The Gods who even now plotted ruin. He wondered, too, with a feeling that was both sinking and soaring, why the Derkesthai had brought Isidora back from Beyond, was bringing her south to him.

  Then he heard Diego’s distinctive snore somewhere on the hillside, and his train of thought was broken. He went to wake his partner and tell him that he would see a dragon after all.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The old woman moved with a slow, shuffling gate through the Borgetzan encampment. Her narrow back was bent, head jutting forward and eyes caste down in concentration. Balanced on her outstretched hands was a gleaming silver tray, atop which rested a covered plate of food. A short distance behind her walked a merry boy, whistling as he followed with a tall, stoppered decanter of wine and a sparkling crystal goblet.

  Their progress was unremarkable to the soldiers and servants sharing the crowded pathways between brightly colored tents; Terrin’s lords and chancellors often required the delivery of specially prepared meals. The particular tent that was their destination, however, was much larger than that of the highest lord, a stark white that stood out among the garish collage.

  At its entrance, the old woman and boy were stopped by two guards.

  “No meals were ordered here, grandmother,” said the shorter of the men.

  The woman looked up, black eyes moving slowly, pointedly, between the men. “We are invited within.”

  “Of course, grandmother,” the same man said in a vacant tone. The guards’ spears dipped, arms reaching back to spread aside the tent’s doorway. When the woman and boy had passed within, the men closed the flaps and resumed vigilant stances.