The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  Arturo’s eyes softened as he took her arm, led her several feet away.

  “All we know at this point is that a scouting party was killed,” he said in a low voice. “We are close enough to Vianalon know that it’s certain we’ve been sighted. They might have been overcome by Church soldiers.”

  “You know they weren’t, not without raising an alarm.”

  He hesitated, then nodded sharply. “Can you contact Shenlith? Can he help, do you think?”

  She shook her head, shamed by the jerking movement that she could not control. “He has not answered my call since my arrival in camp.”

  Arturo’s gaze scanned her face with a mixture of frustration and a fear he could not completely hide from her. “I will protect you, my love. You are in no danger.”

  She heard his words, knew he meant them, but could take little comfort. Echoing in her mind was Shenlith’s voice. It was dampened by her fear, suffocated by the basic need for safety, but it was there.

  Tool of Calabria’s need.

  And her own voice followed, asking, What must I do, Calabria?

  A breath of molten warmth touched her heart, clearing the sticky webs of fear. It was not Shenlith who answered the question, but the voice of her heart.

  Protect. Act. Defend.

  Beneath her blouse, the amulet Shenlith had given her was hot and pulsing. And resting on another, longer chain, the original amulet turned cold against her skin. Since witnessing the slow opening of the Gates of Beyond, she had ceased to think of it as the Stone of Beginning. Instead, she had come privately to call it the Stone of Ending.

  Looking up at Arturo, she said, “I know how to get the amulet into Luther’s hands.”

  His features registered surprise, then wariness. “I’m not sure I want to hear your idea,” he said.

  “No, you most certainly do not.”

  *

  Isidora walked across the grassy plain toward the looming shadow of an outcropping of trees. Her heart beat slowly, steadily in her breast, untouched by the fear making her knees weak and palms damp. All around her veiled-ones moved, one with the shadows, their presences undetectable to her physical senses. She knew they were there only because of her own strange bond with the land.

  Where the Children of Calabria walked, the heart of the land beat strongly.

  Cool wind brushed a lock of hair against her face, rustled through branches and leaves. An owl hooted once, twice, and was silent. Not long past, the call of an owl would have meant a great deal to her, an omen foretelling the presence of the Goddess. Much was different now, and though the owl no longer bore divine symbolism, it embodied meaning still.

  The owl hooted once more as Isidora drew near its perch.

  The Stone of Ending was like ice against her chest.

  “Don’t move,” a voice rasped.

  She halted at the line of trees, one step outside the border of the copse. A dry chuckle emerged from the darkness, quickening her breath. She was suddenly mortally afraid; her ears rang softly in panic and her breath rasped painfully. Her knees felt liquid and weak; she locked them against collapse.

  Two slim shadows separated from the pervasive darkness, walking forward until starlight touched upon a dark veil, dark eyes, and another, smaller face. “She came,” spoke the boy. His maimed face was turned toward her, a small, cherubic smile on his lips.

  Isidora tucked instinctive compassion away, reminded herself that in the sucking absence of the boy’s soul was her ruin. She was almost relieved when Ummon rasped, “That was the goal, wasn’t it?” The black eyes were like voids, no spark of light or life in them. “My lady, kind of you to join us.”

  The rehearsed words passed her lips without thought, “I heard your call.”

  “My call,” chirped the boy. He danced from foot to foot, mouth gaping. “I called, she came. The ghost of Alesia’s ruin.”

  Isidora turned her head away in revulsion as Ummon murmured, “I do not think so.”

  There was something in his voice that made her head whip toward him. The wind rose suddenly, lashing curls across her neck and forehead. Branches overhead moaned in distress; the shadows seemed higher than moments before. But the night was never unknown to her, trained as she was in the deep, dark world of Alesia’s forests. Power answered her summons, dilating her eyes beyond human restriction.

  The boy reacted, moving a step closer to the veiled-one’s side. There was an anomalous uncertainty in the narrow, hunched shoulders, the way his jaw jutted out, eyeless sockets straining to perceive her. She wondered, as she often did of Lucero, if there was sight in blindness.

  Ummon’s face was very clear to her. As the boy edged nearer to him, he betrayed emotion with a slight shift, an unconscious gesture of protection. Isidora’s eyes widened in baffled comprehension as simultaneously, her fears slid away. With the fading of initial shock, a surprising degree of melancholy tugged at her heart.

  No longer was there danger in the night, only sorrow, for of all the possible circumstances envisioned this one alone had not been foreseen.

  “Why have you come?” she asked sadly.

  “To retrieve the amulet,” Ummon replied flatly.

  “And?” she whispered.

  There was no discernable sound; his shoulders rose minutely as he sighed. “To kill you.”

  Fear surged again with the statement but it was impotent, dissolving almost immediately. The High Cleric’s assassin was lying. Somewhere, invisible in the night, Devlin and his veiled-ones were poised. She wondered if the Master of Knives could read this man’s heart as she could.

  Dark and cold, barren like an endless desert night. The man he had been once—proud, honorable—was a distant, colorless memory. The long ago compact made with the High Cleric was unknown to her; the assassin barely recalled the details, only that it was nearly finished. With allegiance broken, there would be one final chord binding him to humanity. One act of severance, of pity and compassion, and he would be free to end his own life.

  Ummon’s heart confirmed for her: the enemy was just a maimed boy, nothing less and little more. A young mystic whose power was a broken, twisted thing.

  Not a weapon, after all; at least not one that could hurt her.

  The assassin took a slow step forward, away from the boy. The small, disfigured face jerked, lips moving rhythmically as he chewed his lips.

  “The amulet, please,” said Ummon.

  Isidora lifted the stone from where it hung, pulling the chain from around her neck. She tossed it through the dark glade, unsurprised at the blur of Ummon’s hand as he caught it.

  “Do you have it?” the boy mumbled.

  “Yes,” Ummon said, black eyes briefly on Isidora. They were empty no longer. She hesitated to name it gratitude, but something like it was there. A recognition, an acknowledgement of her understanding. His voice grated, “Luther Viccole has taken the throne of Tanalon by force and compulsion.”

  Having delivered that astounding statement, the assassin turned his back to her, free hand moving to clasp the boy’s shoulder. What he whispered to his charge was lost on the wind. He then straightened, tucked the amulet beneath his cloak, and walked into the woods. Not once did his stride falter or his gaze turn back upon the clearing. In moments he was lost to sight.

  There was no noise but the wind stirring leaves. The Master of Knives had let the assassin pass unmolested, to carry the Stone of Ending south to Vianalon. But this other element—this broken boy standing just paces away—none of them had anticipated. And though Isidora had glimpsed Ummon’s other purpose, the acknowledgment and asking in his eyes, she was still stunned. For a pregnant minute, she stared at the place the assassin had last stood.

  “I can see you,” the boy said, voice choked with tears and trembling. “You are red and gold, like the sun. My father wants me to kill you. Ummon said I should not.
”

  Isidora’s dragged her knuckles across her stinging eyes. She wasn’t sure why she was crying but couldn’t seem to stop. The shadows grew heavier, darker, as the veiled-ones moved nearer. “What is your name?” she whispered.

  “Michael,” said the boy. “Ummon told me that my mother named me before she died.” He paused, breath hitching. His head moved from side to side as though he could see the deadly net closing. His small, pale hands began to shake.

  A strangled sob edged past Isidora’s throat as the circle of veiled-ones tightened around the solitary figure. “Michael,” she forced out. “I am Isidora. I—I’m sorry.”

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?” he asked softly. She couldn’t speak, could only nod though he would not see it. He took her silence for an answer, though, and said in a new, tired tone, “I have been dreaming of you for years. The ghost of Alesia’s ruin. The queen who will never be queen. Father said you were the enemy. He said I was to…to… open myself up and swallow your power. I never told him…” He hiccoughed, wiped an arm across his face. “I never told him that I didn’t know how.”

  “It’s all right now, Michael,” Isidora stammered, her voice too high. “It’s all right.”

  His teeth worried still at his lower lip as he whispered, “Ummon said you would show me mercy. He said I would be free.”

  The veiled-ones stood shoulder to shoulder, removing the pale face from her view but not her mind. Isidora sunk to her knees on the ground, chest convulsing with silent sobs. The circle of men slid forward as one. It was a ritual killing of clemency, each blow aimed for swift death. The victim’s blood stained all knives so that no individual was responsible. So that she was not responsible.

  There was no sound at his passing but the gentle settling of his body on the ground.

  When Isidora felt a human touch on her shoulder, she lifted her head to stare vacantly at Devlin’s unveiled features. “You did well,” he said.

  “Is he—” she began, looking across the glade. Before he could respond, she said, “Ummon brought him here to die.”

  He nodded. “I read it in his heart.”

  Drying her face on her sleeve, she pushed herself to her feet. “There is a land-bond within him, still?” she asked.

  Devlin hesitated, finally shook his head. “He walks apart from the land.”

  “And yet he showed compassion, wished for the boy…” she swallowed, “for Michael’s peace.”

  The Master of Knives replied, “For that alone, I will allow him the mercy of suicide.”

  Several miles west of the dark clearing where the blood of the High Cleric’s son seeped slowly into the ground, the encamped army was buzzing with rumors. Two of King Manual’s most grizzled and fearsome scouts had returned early from their posting. Some whispered that they dragged behind them the mutilated body of a Church Soldier; others said it was a fallen comrade. Older veterans hushed the speculations, their mild gazes following the two Argentans’ progress to the pavilion of the queen.

  Within, Arturo Bellamont was trying to listen to the council. He detected nothing new in their arguments, only variations on regurgitated issues over which they had no ultimate power. Gaining entrance to Vianalon, avoiding innocent casualties, defensive and offensive strategies for the looming confrontation with the Church and Borgetza. As he struggled to retain focus, an old parable of his father’s came, half-formed, into his mind. Something to do with riding a dead horse.

  “Arturo,” Serephina murmured beside him, “Have you given more thought to the Borgetzan dilemma?”

  He wanted to snap, I’m thinking about my wife, but the sight of her dark, worried eyes stilled the retort. Instead he said tiredly, “Either Viccole will accept an alliance or he will not. It depends on how badly the High Cleric needs Terrin’s aid and whether or not he believes he can oust the invaders after defeating us.”

  “How can we be certain he will not compromise for victory?” Ignacio grumbled.

  Hadrian Visconte cleared his throat. “He won't,” he said, with the strain of having voiced the same opinion numerous times. “He believes the God’s will is his own. He will not settle for a piece of Tanalon when he desires the world.”

  Sudden voices grated loudly from beyond the entrance of the tent, effectively silencing the discussion. Arturo half-rose, body humming with tension, but King Manual gestured for him to stay seated. “They are my men,” he said, not ungently, and stood in a smooth motion.

  He was through the entry’s flap in moments and returned almost immediately. Behind him followed two men Arturo recognized as intimates of Gustav the Red. Their hands formed manacles on the arms of their prisoner, whom they dragged unmercifully forward.

  Serephina jolted upright, an irrepressible hand flinging to her mouth. Arturo slanted a swift glance of warning her way. She drew a slow breath and calmly lowered herself to her seat.

  He waited until knew the queen was composed, then stood and walked to Manual’s side. The captive’s weight was entirely supported by the Argentans’ grips. His clothing was fine, though tattered from the journey. His dark head lolled forward. There was no audible proof that the man even lived, so still was his form.

  One of the scouts shifted his grip and the man gave a soft, rattling breath.

  Arturo glanced at Manual. “Who is it and where did they find him?”

  The king, in turn, looked at his men. “You heard Bellamont,” he prompted.

  It was the marginally shorter, grey-bearded man who cleared his throat and spoke in the clipped voice of report, “There are close to one-thousand armed men camped two miles southeast. As best as we could decipher, this is their leader.”

  “Dear God,” mumbled Hadrian.

  “Did he say a thousand?” barked Ignacio.

  The prisoner’s head jerked as he coughed and spit blood on the ground. Though his head still lolled, he began to speak. Arturo assumed it was gibberish, but when he leaned closer he heard a familiar name. “Serephina… queen.”

  With a sudden chill of foreknowing, Arturo straightened. “Release him,” he barked, then amended. “Gently, please.”

  The man was lowered to the flattened grass where he supported himself, barely, on one elbow. As Arturo knelt, he waved Diego forth from the shadows. His partner began to gently prod at the man’s ribs, eliciting an animalistic groan. A water flask was offered by Manual and Arturo uncapped it, held it to the man’s mouth. He swallowed with effort before closing his lips. His head began to shake urgently; his arm wobbled as he sought to sit up. Assisted by Diego and Arturo, he managed to rearrange himself, legs sprawled forward and torso upright against Diego’s arm.

  Serephina had risen again and come forward, was now standing with Ignacio and Alvar at her back. The prisoner stared up at her through one eye. The other was swollen shut, skin already turning bold shades of purple. “My queen,” he gasped. “Duke Alonso…Tuscena… at your service.”

  Never regarded as an overly sentimental sort of woman, the gathered men were taken aback as Serephina strode forward with purpose and knelt before the duke. Tuscena’s one eye was opened wide in surprise, unblinking as the Queen of Tanalon soaked the hem of her gown in water and began cleaning the blood from his cheek.

  The silence in the pavilion was such that voices outside were heard clearly. One among them caused a notable stir. It was a woman’s voice, yelling for her husband at the top of her lungs.

  It was not Isidora.

  King Manual was closest to the entrance. He swept the flap aside just as a pale blur of female ran past. She came to a halt so abruptly that Manual—in the process of reaching for her—stumbled and was caught by the hand of one of his men.

  The woman’s eyes, wild with desperation and grief, darted blindly around the lamplit room before seizing upon the resting form of the duke. Relief filled her face even as her eyes registered shock and horror at his abuse. Her
narrow shoulders tightened, her hands forming petite fists, but before she could attempt vengeance, the queen rose.

  “Duchess Tuscena, welcome,” spoke Serephina gently. “I offer my humblest apologies for the treatment of your husband at the hands of my men. They acted boldly against an assumed enemy. May I inquire why no flag of truce was erected over your encampment?”

  At the queen’s noble tone, habitual calm flowed across the lady’s face. She sunk into a perfect curtsy, spoiled only slightly by her dishevelment. “Your highness, my husband did not expect to intercept you for another day.” Her head remained bowed, her final words muffled, “I have yet to finish sewing the flag of truce.”

  A bubbling of improbable laughter filled Serephina’s throat, emerged in her voice, “Is that so, my lady?”

  Alonso of Tuscena made an unmistakable noise through split, swollen lips. Despite his obvious pain, he was overcome with laughter. The duchess’ pale complexion flushed in embarrassment. Abashedly, she murmured, “The duke suggested earlier today that I might be less concerned with my stitching and more concerned with the timely completion of my project.”

  The laughter in the pavilion was loud and genuine, the dissolving of tension expressed by everyone save Arturo. He left quietly as a medic entered to treat the duke. Glancing back, he saw Serephina guiding the duchess to a chair.

  Diego gave him a cursory nod; he could expect a report later.

  Outside there was an expansive hush to the night. All the regular sights and sounds greeted him as he strode toward the foremost scouting station. Still, beneath the sensory trappings of the army—or perhaps above—there was a strange quietude. The sky was starless, low clouds touched by the flickering reach of campfires. All around men laughed, whispered, barked loudly, but their voices rang tinny in the moist air.

  Arturo reached the station, automatically returned the greetings he was given, and continued walking until the darkness rose before him like a blanket hung from the top of the world to its bottom. Untouched by the drying warmth of fires, the plains hosted eddies of thick fog.