The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  “All is well,” spoke a shadow beside him.

  Arturo glanced at the veiled-one. He bit his tongue on a demand of certainty. Instead, he replied, “Of course.”

  Tomaz sighed audibly, out of politeness rather than necessity. “Ummon was allowed to escape with the amulet.”

  There was a hesitance barely perceivable in his tone, causing Arturo to turn and meet the dark eyes. “And?”

  “The High Cleric’s son was with him.” Arturo drew a sharp breath, fought an impulse to start running, not to stop until the darkness was beaten back and Isidora was in his arms. Then Tomaz added, “The boy was given el morte compassiva.”

  “Merciful death,” Arturo echoed, knowing the seldom used ritual. “Why?”

  One black shoulder lifted in a shrug. “The Master of Knives read his heart and passed judgment upon him. The judgment was obeyed.”

  The fog was growing denser, clouds falling like sprays of a celestial waterfall. “What else have you learned from the land-bond?” he asked.

  Tomaz didn’t answer, instead lifting an arm to point into the misty night. The muffled sound of nervous horses reached their ears first, then the sight of a column of shadow amidst the fog. The mist danced away from the horses, parting like a veil on the group of riders. It was Mufahti and his men. Before the barbarian leader sat a woman, her hair veiled by a shawl against the wetness and cold.

  Arturo didn’t know he had moved—nor was he aware of the widening of Tomaz’ dark eyes at his swiftness—until the lead stallion’s flank was beneath his hand, until his arms drew his wife down. She sighed, pressed her chilled nose into his neck.

  “I must sleep, love,” she whispered.

  Arturo paused, looked beyond the horses. The veiled-ones stood in a pocket of dry, empty air, the mist somehow repulsed by their presence. A suspicion was forming in his mind. He rejected it at once but it leapt back immediately to his throat.

  “The weather?” he asked.

  Devlin al’Ven met his gaze. “The bloodlines of the Children of Alesia and Calabria grew distinct over time,” he said with a significant glance at Isidora.

  “El morte compassiva?” he asked. Did she witness the child’s death?

  Devlin nodded and continued, “The Children of Alesia were given sway over elementals of fire, water, earth, and air, while the hearts of the Children of Calabria beat in time with domhain lár.”

  Isidora’s breath sighed against him. “I understand, love,” she whispered. “No need for secrecy. This weather is mine, though it was unintentionally rendered.”

  Arturo looked back to Devlin, who said in an unsettled tone, “I cannot explain it, but it seems the bloodlines have merged again.” He hesitated, finally said, “She is how we used to be. Reader of heart-secrets, elemental mystic.”

  Priestess of Calabria, Arturo thought.

  As if Isidora could read not only his heart but his mind as well, she said, “You named me, Bellamont.” She shivered and he held her more tightly.

  He turned to take her to their dry, warm tent, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. Face to face, he could see now that Devlin’s eyes were deeply troubled. “Ummon offered the boy for sacrifice. Not malevolently, but as a mercy. In his own way, he loved the child and couldn’t abide by the High Cleric’s treatment of him. I will not name him ally or friend to us, but after tonight, it is clear he is the enemy of our enemy.”

  Arturo felt surprise slacken his features. “I assumed there was a fight.”

  “Nay,” Devlin replied, frown lines thick on his brow. “The boy was no weapon except in theory. There was no threat but the threat itself. One more thing, Arturo… before he left, Ummon shared that Viccole has proclaimed himself king in Tanalon.”

  Arturo nodded, thinking of the new arrivals. “Our army has grown this night. The Duke of Tuscena has brought near a thousand men from Tanalon. Obviously, not everyone in the city wishes for a High Cleric as king.”

  The veiled-one nodded. “I sensed it.”

  He shifted the weight of his sleeping wife. “I’m taking Isidora to rest then returning to the queen’s pavilion.”

  Devlin nodded. “I will meet you there.”

  The misty night grew long and ever cooler. The fires that were normally dampened were kept tended for their heat. As Serephina’s war council argued and strategized into the small hours, and men shivered in their bedrolls, Isidora Fiannan slept the deep sleep of exhaustion.

  Bundled in furs against the cold of her own making, she dreamed of a cove she had never seen. A massive tree shaded her from the prickling summer sun, its branches weaving sinuously in sea breezes. She could just make out two figures on the beach, walking south, hand and hand in the shallow water. The woman’s skirts were tucked haphazardly into her waistband and the man’s pants were rolled to his thighs. Their steps were light, radiating joy.

  Isidora was rooted to her place by the tree, unable to appease a growing sense of urgency. There was something about the woman that drew her, but all she could see was the line of her back and a fall of dark curly hair. The man turned his head to look down on his companion and Isidora saw the whirling tattoos on his temple. And the woman glanced up, offering the beauty of her profile.

  Lenora, whispered the breeze.

  A fern leapt from the tree and tickled Isidora’s arm. Suddenly dizzied in the heat, she reached out to steady herself with a hand on the massive trunk.

  A woman’s voice, throaty and honeyed, demanded, “Who are you?”

  Isidora opened her eyes. Lenora stood before her, just outside the shaded ground beneath the tree. Her hair was coiled into tens of plaits; the mass writhed around her torso like snakes, wrapping around her arms, her neck. Her eyes were terrible to behold, the skin beneath bruised dark with grief, pupils dilated with madness.

  “Isidora Fiannan… of Alesia,” she stammered.

  Lenora’s lips parted in surprise. A slow, shuddering breath escaped her and at once, her hair grew limp and natural and her eyes glassy. “This is a dream,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Isidora replied more steadily. “One we are sharing.”

  Tears gathered and rolled down the dusky rose of Lenora’s cheeks. She looked back at the cove, the empty span of beach. “He is not here.”

  “No, but he comes for you,” she said, unknowing of the certainty in her words.

  Her expression was haunted, eyes unseeing. “I am not here,” she said.

  It took mighty effort for Isidora to pull her hand from the tree, for the dream and Lenora’s madness were powerful forces. With gritted teeth and a cry of triumph, she forced her fingers through the ephemeral barrier and grabbed hold of Lenora’s shoulder. Her skin was soft and warm to the touch and her heart beat loud and true in Isidora’s ears. The insanity receded from her eyes as the connection between them formed like a taut rope.

  “We are here,” Isidora panted. “We are coming for you.”

  Lucid dark eyes scanned her face, her mouth, and finally met her own. “I believe you, my lady,” she sighed. “Will you tell Devlin something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “The cove,” she whispered. “Tell him the cove is the only dream I have.”

  Isidora’s fingers closed on air. She turned wildly but there was no sight of Lenora. The beach was empty and serene, the sun glinting on brilliant white sands and aqua waters.

  “She was awakened,” said the Nameless.

  The crone sat comfortably among the exposed roots of the tree. The length of ivory beads clacked with familiar discord across her knuckles. She gestured to the ground. Isidora lowered herself obediently, and upon sitting looked up at the tree and remembered.

  “We sat beneath this tree in the north as you told us the story of Calabria.”

  The Nameless nodded. “This place is Avosilea by the Sea. It is the birthplace of Arturo de Ga
lván, Devlin al’Ven, and Lenora di Salvatoré, descendents of three families who chose not to follow Istar from Dunak to Alesia. The bay yonder is the point from which the Goddess led her children across the sea. These roots,” she stroked the gnarled growth, “are the last offshoot of domhain lár to breathe above the land.”

  Isidora touched a finger to a nearby root and felt the familiar drumbeat of life.

  The Nameless continued to stroke the root. “The de Galván’s, the al’Ven’s, and the di Salvatoré’s planted this seed, which was a parting gift from Istar. It was one of hundreds of seeds brought from Dunak and taken to Alesia.”

  “The Gardens of Almhain,” Isidora said, her voice breaking.

  The black eyes rose and were as she’d first seen them in a dream, starry night with a circle of gold about the irises. “Yes,” she said, and smiled a little. “Everything that begins must end, so that in every ending there is a beginning. Do you see, my child?”

  “I do,” she said, thinking of Alesia and the Gardens.

  The Nameless reached out suddenly and took her hand in a vice-like grip. Her voice was grating and intent, full of emotion such as Isidora had never heard, “When the time comes, you must remember this. The heart of the land is Calabria. Nothing may destroy it, though it may be obscured by vices of men and gods. Domhain lár has always been, will always be. Will you keep the ancient faith, queen who will never be queen? Tool of Calabria’s need? When everything you see speaks of ruin, will you keep your faith?”

  “Nothing may destroy it,” Isidora repeated, nodding. “I will not forget.”

  The Nameless relaxed her grip, lifted a surprisingly soft palm to Isidora’s cheek. The branches of the tree swayed low around them, spreading shadow. The crone’s voice was thick and dry, every century of her life in the words as she said, “By the time you awake, the Gates of Beyond will have opened. None will escape the vengeance of the Gods. Few will survive. Keep your faith, Isidora Sitha Fiannan, as you walk unmolested.”

  Isidora awoke herself with a muffled scream, clawing at her torso. The Stone of Beginning had burned through her clothes and seared the tender skin below her breast. Half-sobbing from pain, the dream potent in her mind, she tore free from her blankets and stumbled outside the tent.

  Arturo’s name died on an expulsion of stunned breath. The plains stretched around her for miles and miles, empty of all human trace. Birds chirped amongst the high, unbent grasses. A breeze tickled and dried the sweat on her skin.

  It was a beautiful, crystalline summer’s day, and she was alone.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The sky above Vianalon dispersed meager sunlight in a grey haze. Soft bales of mist rolled ever nearer to the ground. By midday, the parapets of the city were encased in cloud. Sentries exchanged tense words as they paced the slick stone. Archers slacked at their posts, blowing heat into their rigid fingers and grumbling about luck.

  In time, flasks began circulating among the ranks while officers turned a blind eye. Those whose tongues were easily loosened by a mixture of drink and dormant childhood fears whispered of dreadful omens and sorcery, of a faint metallic taste on their tongues.

  From the city below, the muted sounds of hammering floated up, disembodied beneath the mist. Despite a declaration from the king that no army would breach Vianalon’s walls, men and women worked feverishly boarding windows and bricking doors. The streets themselves were empty save for an occasional runner or stray dog.

  In his high, gilded chamber of the palace, Luther Viccole sat close to the blazing hearth. There was a deep, damp ache in his bones that no amount of furs or heat could distill. The windows of the royal apartment were sealed by drapes, shutting out the unnerving absence of his city, invisible beneath the fog.

  At mass this morning he’d reassured the nervous public that the weather was a sign from the God, that it was in fact a mighty shield obscuring them from the sight of the approaching armies. The masses had been appropriately appeased. Luther himself did not believe it, nor, he observed, had those members of the Noble Houses in attendance.

  It did not take a mystic to sense something unnatural in how quickly the fog condensed, how it continued to thicken despite summer temperatures. It was not the bitch Alesian’s doing, for Luther would have sensed the elemental influence at work and might have dissembled it. No, what lurked in the skies above Vianalon was something infinitely older and more cunning.

  Perhaps Borgetza held a well-guarded secret of foreign sorcery and Terrin was even now orchestrating an ambush of the south wall. There was also the strange honor guard of Duke Damáskenos. The barbarians might possess unknown powers in their blood, unfelt before on Calabria.

  Whatever the cause, Luther recognized the symptoms of his body, the erratic nature of his thoughts. Ummon was gone, his twisted son was dead, and the amulet he’d been so driven to possess sat cold and unresponsive in his hands. Fear gathered and ran in streams of sweat down his sides and across his scalp. The deep cold in his bones kept him paralyzed in his seat. Panic deafened the constant, demanding knocks on the barred door.

  *

  Mounted on a snowy white palfrey amidst massive warhorses, Lenora di Salvatoré ignored the heated discussion taking place between Terrin and his councilors, as well as the larger distraction of thousands of anxious men. Beside her sat a herald, his young face washed pale by fear. Every few moments he would shift in the saddle, causing his steed to stamp restlessly. His hands were white-knuckled on pole from which flags of state lay limp in the tepid air.

  The youth’s eyes, like Lenora’s, were fixed on Vianalon.

  Due west was the city that had been her home and refuge once, and later the prison she fled. There was not much to see now of the glistening spires, the high, colorful flags. The massive, walled city was encased in an impenetrable cyclone of fog. Eddies of white and grey cloud swarmed in odd concert, spinning clockwise from the ground into the sky.

  “Sorcery,” spat one of Terrin’s liegemen. Lenora glanced toward the voice, her bland expression never changing as she recognized the aged sea captain who had bought her in Seizo more than a decade prior. His fat hands yanked angrily on the reigns until the warhorse had enough. The beast reared and screamed, knocking several squires to the ground and causing a swift ripple effect of panicked horses and riders.

  “Calm yourselves!” roared Terrin, his voice carrying through the still air. The commotion ceased as the captains dispersed to their regiments, bellowing orders as they rode.

  Lenora turned again to look at Vianalon and marveled that she felt nothing. Surely there were forces at work beyond her wildest imaginings, forces to be feared or admired. There was a memory in her heart, tucked safely between the broken shards.

  Isidora Fiannan was coming for her.

  Still, she did not feel a stirring of hope at the clear evidence of sorcery at work. It was impossible to say whether she simply could not feel any longer, or if, in fact, Vianalon’s predicament had nothing to do with Isidora’s powers.

  “My love,” Terrin spoke softly. “You’re awfully quiet this morning.”

  Since waking from the dream this morning, she had barely been able to look at Terrin, much less meet his steady gaze. Now, braced on the edge of madness, teetering on a cliff of consequence, she said, “Is it true, my dear, that this war is really the fulfillment of a vendetta rather than a predestined play of power?”

  His sharp breath was audible despite general noise around them. “What do you mean?” he asked in a new, darker voice.

  Lenora found that she could feel, after all, and what she felt was giddiness. “Long ago, Arturo Bellamont killed your son upon order of Armando de la Caville. That is the truth as I know it. And now, I think, you will destroy House Caville, this kingdom, and these people, and leave this land in ruin.”

  Her voice was soft so that no one overheard, and yet there was a stirring of awareness
around them. So charismatic and worshipped was King Terrin that his disquiet, his rage—even his joy—was felt and mirrored by all around him. Silence spread in waves from their horses; even the herald ceased his twitching.

  “And if I say you are right?” he asked at length. “What then, Lenora?”

  Instead of replying, she turned in the saddle to look at him. He hadn’t been sleeping well the last several nights. There were smudges of darkness beneath his lucid eyes, lines she’d not noticed before around his mouth. He was still handsome, washed and dressed this dawn by loving attendants. His crimson cloak was a beacon of strength and power, flowing over his broad shoulders and onto the rump of his warhorse.

  Terrin appeared exactly as a king should before his people. He was strong, beautiful, full of grace and power. He was not mad; had never been. “Let me go,” she said.

  “I cannot,” he replied.

  “As you wish,” she whispered, and put her heel to her horse’s flank to return to the back of the army and the soft, deceitful company of women and eunuchs.

  She had not traveled fifty yards when a convulsive shudder slid down her spine and fear descended on her chest like a heavy hand. Her vision darkened strangely. She blinked hard and twisted her neck toward the sun, and watched the fiery disk of Anshar turn red as women’s blood.

  Terrin screamed her name but she could not move, transfixed by the anomaly above. Although she had never witnessed an eclipse, she knew instinctively that this was not one. In less than a minute, the skies were black as pitch and the sun shone bright and sickly upon the world below.

  The horses were the first to panic, throwing their riders as they bolted from formation. Several times Lenora narrowly escaped death as a distraught warhorse barreled past her. Her own palfrey stood strangely calm within the chaos, though its body quivered beneath her.

  In the odd half-light, poised at the eastern tip of the army’s head, she saw the first man fall to an invisible foe. The soldier thrashed, tearing at his face and armor until his hands were bloody ribbons. He succeeded in yanking his helmet free so that Lenora saw clearly the rippling boils spreading across his scalp. Another fell, and another, all taken by the same paroxysms and skin-splitting pustules.