It had been many years since he had last received such direct communion with the God. For a moment, he was humbled and awed, grateful beyond comprehension. Then he rose, limbs humming with vitality, and faced the congregation.
“Praise be to Anshar,” he intoned, and power hummed in his voice, his tone reverberating, changing as it traveled the acoustic channels of the building.
There were flickers of unease in the faces of those nearest him. Several figures, mostly women, rubbed their hands unconsciously over their arms.
After a brief hesitation, the flock echoed a disjointed, “Amen.”
Luther looked past the Houses to the pews beyond. From wall to wall stood seventy decorated commanders of the army of the Church. Their crisp uniforms and rigid, untiring posture were symbolic; the swords on their belts were not.
“I have received a vision, my children,” Luther began softly.
His gaze roamed over the soldiers, touching upon the hundreds of laypersons clustered near the doors. He spoke to them, bending his voice so that they shivered at its closeness. They saw his distant figure as an embodiment of fatherly love; a corona of light shone from his white hair and beard, the subtle gold-threading in his mantel furthering the effect.
“Anshar has spoken to me, and He has shown me terrible things.”
Disquiet rippled more strongly through the foremost pews. Fine gowns rustled, men exchanged glances, and the soldiers touched their hands to their belts. And behind the altar, shadowed by the great sunburst, the rows of clerics and acolytes stood stiff and pale.
Luther, caught in the moment, warped his voice further, evoking the foreboding of a storm, the far-off stirrings of thunder. “The God has shown me Tanalon as a bright star grown dim, plummeting from the heavens to be snuffed by an ocean. My brave people, Anshar has revealed that the dimness is our empty throne and the dark sea, Borgetza.”
Murmurs surfaced and sunk. Tanalon’s nobility now stood as still as the lines of clerics opposite them. Luther took several moments to enjoy their inner trembling, feeding on their uncertainties, their fragile hopes, and the acid of their fear.
“Our brave Duke Tuscena was forced to flee his duchy,” he continued sadly, “his lands overrun by the pounding feet of the enemy. Borgetza comes for us, my children, ready to march into our nation’s crippling fault line. We will crack apart, our bright star snuffed.”
“What should we do?” cried a distant voice, a nameless peasant seized by uncharacteristic impulse. Later, the man would tell his wife of the moment, of a strange feeling inside his skull, something with a spider’s touch and numbing poison.
“Ah,” Luther sighed, spreading his hands. “But we have no king to sit upon our throne. Armando de la Caville is gone, may he rest in peace, and his cowardly daughter fled the troubles facing us.”
In the second row of pews, Tivia of Tuscena moved her hand carefully, concealing it with her skirts as she found her husband’s cold fingers. He returned her clasp, squeezing tightly, for he too realized what was coming.
“But rest your hearts,” spoke the High Cleric, “for I am the God’s servant, and He has spoken to me. His demand is great, a burden I will accept with hesitance and humility.”
From the line of clerics came a soft, fervent prayer: “Dear God.”
Luther bowed his head, savoring the fading echoes of that voice. “I will do my best not to fail you, my children. As your High Cleric, and as your king.”
In the chaos that followed, four nobles—two old men and two young—were killed when they charged the pulpit. Eight peasants were trampled, one child among them. An elderly woman collapsed, dead from heart failure, but otherwise there were no casualties.
It was no more than an hour after the proclamation that the heads of the Houses and their families, including those of the fallen traitors, were escorted by soldiers toward the altar. They knelt before their king, swearing fealty with false cheer or whispered strain.
Much later, when the Church was shadowed with night and only the altar candles gave aspect to the darkness, eighty-seven clerics and twenty-four acolytes walked slowly down the central aisle. They were the total number of devotees in the God’s Holiest Church, and they moved with the heavy, shuffling gait of those afflicted by sudden, intense emotional suffering.
When the last man and boy had found a place in the first pews, they looked with one gaze upon the altar. The thick wax candles sputtered, sent plumes of smoke drifting up, which passed across the God’s sunburst like storm clouds through the sky.
“God deliver us from sin,” spoke the eldest of them.
“Amen,” they intoned.
“God deliver us from pride,” another murmured.
“Amen,” they answered, and their voices were stronger.
“God deliver us from evil,” wavered a youthful voice.
The clerics said a final, fervent, “Amen,” then knelt together to pray.
And as the clerics and acolytes beseeched an absentee God for deliverance, in the royal apartments of the king, Luther Viccole sat in a gilded chair sipping wine. Beside him, the massive bedchamber hearth was cold, but the glittering golden ambiance of the room was maintained by numerous sconces.
Taking a hearty swallow, he rested his head back and sighed. “Do quit skulking, Ummon,” he spoke to the empty room.
The veiled-one materialized from a narrow shaft of shadow near a curtained window. Through slitted eyes, Luther watched him move, mused that with each step the assassin gained more distinction. When he perched on the opposing chair, he nearly resembled a human man.
Luther lifted his head, rolled the remaining liquid in his glass. “What news, my friend?”
“I am not your friend,” Ummon rasped.
“But you are not my enemy,” he rejoined, half-questioning.
The veiled-one hesitated. “No.”
“Not my enemy but not my friend,” Luther mused. Finally, he smiled. “It is well. So, what news do you bring me? Or are you here to offer congratulations?”
“Yes, congratulations,” replied the assassin wryly. “Shall I call you your majesty?”
Luther grinned. “After the formal coronation tomorrow, I should like that.”
Abruptly, Ummon snapped, “Be wary of false pride, not-my-enemy, lest it knock the crown from your hands before it reaches your head. The news I bring is from your son.”
The humor faded from Luther’s face as he sat upright. “Speak.”
“The child slept, and dreamed, and awoke. He said: ‘Calabria flies, bringing the awakened ghost of Alesia’s ruin to your door. The Stone is no longer the Stone, for it is no longer Beginnings but Endings. The heart of the land beats the drums of war.’ Then he fainted.”
The glass of wine hung suspended in Luther’s fingers, secured from habit rather than effort. “What does it mean?” he hissed.
Ummon shrugged. “How am I to know? I revoked my bond to the land upon entering your service.”
Luther became aware of his glass, deposited it with a discordant note on the cold stone of the hearth. “You’ve still the eyes and skills of the desert, Ummon,” he said harshly. “What have they learned?”
The assassin shrugged. “It is as your Duke Tuscena warned. Borgetza is less than three day’s march from Vianalon.”
A flutter of anxiety quelled the last of Luther’s exultation. “And Bellamont?”
Ummon hesitated, gaze flickering curiously from the hearth to a spot on Luther’s chest. “They crossed the river several days ago and are four days behind Borgetza.”
Tingling cold traveled across Luther’s neck and shoulders. “The awakened ghost of Alesia,” he echoed. Focusing on the visible portion of Ummon’s face, he grated, “You said the bridge would not support the army’s crossing.”
“It did not,” the assassin said, then confirmed Luther’s suspicions, “The
Viana herself ceased to flow for two days and one night. The riverbed was temporarily filled for crossing.”
Furious, Luther snarled, “I can no longer gamble on Borgetza crushing Bellamont for us, not with the sorceress Fiannan among them. The boy said she was trapped Beyond, unable to return!”
With suspect emphasis, Ummon retorted, “The boy was wrong.”
By force of will, Luther reined his emotion and cooled his voice, “Take the wretch north and deal with the witch. Bring me her amulet at all costs. I don’t care how you do it, or whether the boy comes back alive. Do not fail me in this.”
The black eyes glittered. “And is this my last task, not-my-enemy?”
He ground his teeth, forced out, “Yes. Kill Isidora Fiannan and bring me the Stone of Beginning.”
“And our contract will be fulfilled?” the veiled-one repeated.
“Yes, Damnit!” Luther roared. “Now go, get out of my sight!”
Ummon rose slowly and bowed. He moved so fast and fluidly that between one blink and the next, Luther was alone with the empty hearth, the flickering flames of sconces the only evidence of the veiled-one’s departure.
Luther was still sitting, awake and sleepless, when a hesitant knock sounded on the door. Behind thick drapes, the first gray fingers of dawn reached to hold the sky. The man who stood on the threshold was a thin, beady-eyed soldier who swallowed compulsively. He had the look of a new recruit, his uniform ill-fitting, his hands calloused from field labor. At once, Luther knew him for a lackey, forced by his superiors to deliver bad tidings.
After several false starts, the soldier stammered, “It’s Tuscena, your Eminence… er, your majesty. The duke has disappeared, along with his men.”
Luther jerked in shock, his foot clipping the wine glass. The sound of its shattering was oddly delicate, almost musical against the hearthstone.
“Are you certain?”
The soldier’s head bobbed, nostrils flaring. “The duke rode out close to midnight, taking the back avenues to the western gates. He was challenged by the guards. He told them he was on a scouting mission approved by you… your Eminence. The guards have been arrested.”
“You’ve done well,” Luther said with effort. “Send me the arresting officer. You are dismissed.”
The man fled with no pretense of pride. Luther strode across the room, yanking back the nearest curtain. Vianalon was spread like a misty dream before him, her many zigzagging streets gentled by the dawn.
Across the waking city, hundreds of chimneys coughed thin streams of smoke. He imagined water kettles set to boil over carefully tended fires, husbands and wives joining to share the rare quiet before children woke and the day’s duties began. Even balanced on war’s jagged precipice, the people held to the patterns of their silly little lives.
Only when the sun glinted brightly from whitewashed stone and the streets below began to fill with morning traffic did Luther turn to gaze at his own cold hearth.
A young maid, feet trained to discretion, paused near the open door and risked a glance into the royal bedchamber. Upon seeing the figure by the window, she curtsied quickly and made a hasty retreat.
Luther did not notice her presence, was not aware of his unguarded expression. That day, the maid resigned from the coveted duty of servicing the king’s chamber.
For all the long years of her life, she would never forget that glimpse of Luther Viccole. For she saw not the face of the High Cleric—nor of Tanalon’s new king—but that of the man beneath. And while the other girls wheedled and begged the chamberlain for the honor she’d declined, and while she never rose again past the title of ordinary maid, she would not regret her decision.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Horns blared loud sequences through the heavy, still air, calling Serephina’s army to a midday halt. Men gave thanks beneath their breath for the reprieve. Those on foot dropped immediately to the ground, stretching their legs and massaging sore feet, while riders dismounted and rummaged through saddlebags for refreshment. Flasks of water were poured over heads as much as down throats; more potent remedies were passed discreetly from hand to hand.
The formerly crisp lines of regiments blurred as fringes broke from formation, Argentans mingling among the men of Damáskenos. Days of relentless pace and nights of campfire talk had given birth to tentative fellowship between the two factions; among other, more basic qualities of life, they commiserated on how their cool, rocky northern climes compared to the sodden heat of Tanalon’s rolling midlands.
The veiled-ones, whose desert home held heat aplenty but no humidity, suffered the worst in their dark robes. Though the Children of Calabria continued to hold themselves apart, traveling by day in loose columns and sharing no fires but their own, they were not excluded from sympathy. The public friendship between Bellamont and the Master of Knives was much witnessed, and before long it was not uncommon to see veiled figures taking rest in the saddles of Damáskenos’ knights or Argentan soldiers.
Even while stationary, the army was abuzz with purpose. From the vanguard to the supply trains, young pages in bright vests scurried among darker-clad soldiers. Heralds galloped the sizable length and breath of men, banners flapping from pikes attached to their saddles. The pennant colors varied from Argenta’s bold blue and gold to Damáskenos’ more muted standard, but attached above them all waved House Caville’s phoenix wreathed in fire.
Finnéces of Alesia was taking advantage of the break to chew on his dwindling supply candied fruit, a treat he’d come to favor in Damáskenos. Luckier than most, he was able to fit his slight body into the narrow shaft of shade caste by his horses’ shoulder. The earthy scent of animal sweat mingling with the sweet fruit in his mouth, he watched a herald’s disembodied flags traveling fast on the outskirts of the army.
“A strange sight, is it not?” Isidora remarked, stepping to his side.
Finnéces turned to offer her a bow, “Indeed, my lady. How do you fare?”
Though her eyes were following the progress of the herald, a tawny eyebrow rose. “I’d fare better if I had one of your fruits.”
Finnéces smiled and offered her the small pouch. She took it, peered inside, and finally selected a shriveled orange mass that in its former life had been a peach. She chewed with relish, sucking the moisture from the skin before taking a swallow of water from her flask.
“I am well as can be, Finnéces,” she said finally, aware that he’d been waiting for an answer. “Arturo is confident that we will reach Vianalon within two days.”
“And his plan?” he asked hesitantly.
Isidora’s expression was masked by a fall of curls as she turned her head away. “Crush Borgetza, lure the High Cleric to death, and celebrate.” Her tone was carefully monotone, and Finnéces wisely kept his lips sealed. At length, she sighed. “He does not know. He asks me for answers when I have none. When exactly will the Gates open? How will we deliver the amulet to the High Cleric? When Istar and Anshar descend, how will we protect ourselves?”
She looked at him then, and he flinched at the deep conflict in her eyes. “How do you maintain your faith, old friend? You, who are a devotee of the God?”
Finnéces drew a deep breath and wished he hadn’t as the myriad, potent smells of the hot day assaulted his nose. “I will not lie to you, my lady, and say my faith is unchanged since coming afoot on Calabria. How could it not change, with all the remarkable trials we’ve endured, the revelations uncovered? It is well that faith does not depend on fact, for I would be doomed. Rather, it lives in my heart, with hope.”
“I—” Isidora began, but halted. She cocked her head, brows drawing together. “Do you hear that, Finnéces? They are horns of distress.”
He began to shake his head, then paused, listening. Beneath the steady din of horses and men, he discerned it. High, sharp bursts with no rhythm, as though the man responsible was merely blowing as h
ard as he could with every breath.
Isidora jolted into action, weaving a path through the ranks with Finnéces panting at her heels. Shouts went up as the call was discerned, soon to be echoed by more horns. The mood was instantly taut, men hurriedly checking their weapons, stowing away their flasks, and mounting up for orders.
At the forefront of the army, the queen’s party milled in tense silence. Isidora halted, breathing hard, beside Devlin al’Ven. He stood very still, bright eyes gazing east. A group of riders were galloping away; even at a distance, the dark, massive forms were clear as Mufahti and his men. They were bent low in the saddles of their black steeds, racing toward an approaching scouting party. Three of the horses were without riders, the final two supporting veiled-ones.
“What’s happened?” Isidora asked.
Devlin’s gaze never wavered. “The horses were found grazing.”
Something in his tone passed a chill along her arms, gooseflesh rippling despite the heated day. “And the riders?”
His eyes flickered to her and away. “They were discovered nearby,” he said, and hesitated. After a moment, he murmured, “They died most unpleasantly.”
Immediately, she knew, and took an involuntary step closer to the Master of Knives. Anxiety poured through her chest, squeezing her heart. “It’s him, isn’t it? Ummon?”
Devlin’s clear blue eyes met hers. “Do not fear, my lady.”
Isidora barely heard, was thinking of the woods in Damáskenos and the maimed boy who was Ummon’s charge. The High Cleric’s weapon, shaped by a malevolence that no amount of compassion would undo. Not even the Master of Knives could protect her from the soulless evil embodied in the child. Her skin crawled to remember it, her power rose defensively, instinctively, until the currents whipped through her hair.
Arturo said her name as he approached. His expression was cautious, beseeching. She became aware that many eyes were now watching her, some appraisingly—like those of King Manual—and some with evident fear. Immediately, she clamped down on the outpouring of power, shut and locked it tight inside.
The Gardens of Almhain Page 37