The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  The destruction of Terrin’s army happened with stunning alacrity as the plague tore like a great scythe through a field of living beings. Men and horses both were afflicted until the whole of Lenora’s vision was consumed by the sounds and sights of violent death. Bodiless voices screamed for help, beseeched their ancestors, even called upon Istar and Anshar for aid.

  Close by, a piercing, sexless voice cried, “The sins of the past are revisited upon us!”

  A soldier lying near Lenora’s horse began crawling toward her, dragging useless legs. Bone was shining on his jaw where the skin had fallen away. One of his eyes hung from the socket, sliding wetly against his ruined face.

  Gasping in terror, she pulled the reigns hard and the palfrey shied away. In moments she was galloping hard in the direction she’d come, instinct guiding her through a landscape starkly changed from minutes ago. Tears burned hotly in her eyes, trickled down her face to her mouth. She tasted blood on her tongue, did not know if she was afflicted or had bitten through her lip.

  “Terrin, Terrin,” she chanted, urging the horse faster.

  He was the only figure left standing in the ruin of Borgetza’s magnificent cavalry. His horse lay at his feet, its belly opened by a great tear, steaming innards spilled upon the ground.

  Lenora reared to a halt and leapt from the saddle to run the final distance to him. She was screaming his name without knowing and he turned sharply at her voice. He stumbled, caught his balance, and lifted a hand weakly. He whispered her name.

  “Oh, my mad king, what has become of you?” Lenora babbled, reaching for him.

  He shook his head, stalled her with an upraised fist. Bloody tears had made tracks down his face; the grisly light turned them blue-black. He had not fallen to spasms, but was not—as she had momentarily hoped—unaffected. It was only that his threshold of pain was high, for she could see the dampness of his sleeves where boils had risen and erupted. He stood because he was king, because the king must stand strong before his people.

  “Come no closer, love,” he grated. She stammered unintelligibly, screamed, and finally sank sobbing to her knees. “Look at me, Lenora,” he said firmly. She dashed the tears from her face, focused with effort on his reddened eyes. She remembered them shining with humor, sparkling with cruelty; she remembered all of her hate and oddly, her love.

  “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, voice tense with pain.

  She gained her feet, sobbed, “Yes, anything.”

  A ghost of a smile passed his lips. “The knife you’ve been concealing, I want you to use it now.”

  “No!” she cried, stumbling back in horror. “I cannot!”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “You can, and you will. For all the ill I have caused you, for our malformed love, I need you to hate me. I…” he swallowed, shuddering, and straightened with force of will. “I tortured and raped you when you were young, too innocent to defend yourself. I turned my self-loathing upon you, tore from you all that might have been pure. These were my greatest sins for which I must pay.”

  “Stop, stop!” she screamed, covering her ears.

  His gloved hand seized her wrist, tore her arm downward. “The sins of the fathers are revisited upon us!” he snapped, eyes rolling wildly across the field of death. “Our perversions, our opulence and cruelty, our raping of the young and enslavement of the old. Borgetza is finished. I am finished. The vengeance of our ancestors is complete!”

  Terrin’s head snapped back; a bestial cry of pain emerged from his throat. With a strangled noise he sunk to his knees before her. Sobbing helplessly, anchored by his hand, Lenora fell hard before him. His dark head bowed forward in defeat. His strength finally gone, his hand fell limply to his side. Blood ran sluggishly from beneath his sleeves, dripping on the ground between them.

  “You came back…” he murmured weakly. “You came… to kill me. I have always known. With all of your hate and what remains of your heart, kill me now. I beg you.”

  There was a growing quiet on the field; the plague had fulfilled its purpose as no human army might have. Now and then someone moaned, called out for their mother or begged softly for mercy. In less than a minute all was quiet save for Terrin’s harsh breathing and her own gasps for air.

  Miles away, Vianalon shone like a beacon, its mists pulsing with light. Beyond, somewhere near the rush of the Viana, was the army of Serephina de la Caville. If they were alive; if anyone were alive but the two of them in all of Calabria.

  Lenora pulled the knife from its concealed pocket and rose to her feet. The palfrey was watching her calmly, unmoved by the stench of ruptured bowl and blood.

  “Thank you,” Terrin whispered.

  She positioned herself, forcing her rigid muscles to move, her fingers to size the back of his collar. His torso bowed back at her command, her hand moved in smooth, practiced ease. The point of knife sunk easily through fabric and skin just beneath his rib cage. He sighed, and she held him to her, forcing the blade deep. She knew the moment it pierced his heart; could feel the echoing sting in her own chest.

  “Forgive me,” he gasped, and memory was strong—the hate and love together—but she replied in truth, “I forgive you.”

  Lenora let him go and he fell, and knew neither pain nor life.

  The palfrey stamped a hoof in her direction, the noise dampened in the heavy air.

  “Yes,” she answered the beast. “I am coming.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  When the Gates of Beyond opened to full capacity and the sun burned red against a black sky, the last of the Derkesthai began to beat his wings in ever-increasing urgency. He left the uppermost atmosphere in a graceful downward spiral. When the highly sensitive scales around his eyes alerted him to optimum speed, he snapped his wings tight against his torso. Invisible against the dark sky, none in the army below saw his fateful plummet.

  Only two men of the entire mass of Serephina’s force looked up instinctively, though they could not see Shenlith’s fall. Arturo Bellamont and Devlin al’Ven were gazing at the red wound of the sun and watching as a growing river of winged beasts poured from it like blackened pus.

  “We’re going to die, old friend,” Devlin said softly.

  “No, we’re not,” Arturo replied.

  And they said no more, for Shenlith had reached the point of impact. The air above the army sizzled and cracked with electricity as the dragon forced his wings to full extension. The pain was such that he screamed, a multi-tonal cry of agony that emerged in a massive gout of fire. Delicate membranes tore from the force of his stopping; dark blood blossomed as hundreds of pearlescent scales cracked.

  Bloated with the ancient powers of every Derkesthai to ever gain flight, his blood drumming with every heartbeat of life, Shenlith forced himself to grow. His skin split and oozed, the bones of his wings snapped as he forced himself larger, larger, until the whole of his body was spread above every last soul on the ground.

  You…father…defy us, Istar whispered.

  YES! answered Calabria.

  You would… give your life… for them? Anshar demanded.

  YES!

  Beneath the dragon, the air grew luminous, each scale shining like precious gems in sunlight. Thousands of faces turned upward, staring in awe at the creature of myth and legend. The veiled-ones cried out in one voice of deepest grief. Tied to the land, to the beast himself, they understood what he offered, the sacrifice being made.

  Between the dragon’s pearlescent scales stretched transparent skin, glowing with light, beneath which the rush of clear fluid and blue veins were visible. Bright blood dripped from every juncture of bone, every edge of each scale, from his gaping maw to the massive fork of his tail.

  And where the blood of Shenlith dropped, the ground turned to stone. And where the foot of man and woman touched land, they, too, became stone.

  You die for nothing, s
narled Istar.

  For life, said Shenlith, who was Calabria, the heart of the land. For beginnings.

  No human eyes witnessed the slow fading of light as Calabria gave himself, essence and matter, in a final act of service to the land. It was the fulfillment of his immortal potential, the actualization of his greatest talent. To preserve the lives of those below, he took their lives in place of his own, their heartbeats in place of his.

  Days north of Tanalon, the Stone of Beginning flared with the light and heat of a thousand suns, and that light consumed the bearer of the stone.

  And far to the south and west, in the eyrie above Avosilea by the Sea, the Nameless cried out in wordless agony, and the Child of Time wept.

  *

  The Gardens of Almhain were alive and radiant with summer’s blessings. Butterflies zipped around her, tickling her face and teasing her hair. The undergrowth to either side of the mossy pathway was in constant movement. Squirrels played and foraged, birds diving to beggar at their hordes. Rabbits darted across the path, bushy tails waving at the grinning fox on their heels.

  Smiling, Isidora looked for someone to share the moment with. There was no one; had been no one for some time. It was troubling, for by now she should have come across a hunting party, or a group of priestesses visiting the herbal beds planted deep in the forest’s interior.

  She watched as the fox skillfully flushed a rabbit into the open. The predator leapt and snapped his teeth until the rabbit was in a dizzy panic. Then jaws closed on the fragile neck and there was a muted pop of sound. The fox grinned up at her with its meal hanging limp from his jaws.

  “Good boy,” Isidora said, smiling.

  The fox’s ears perked, tail swished sharply. He gave a tight yip of sound, dropped the rabbit and darted into the undergrowth. The carcass was left on the trail, forgotten. Perplexed, Isidora lifted her head to study the forest before her. She drew a short, testing breath through her nose.

  Smoke.

  The familiar, cloying scent evoked a deep disquiet and sent chills down her spine. She tried to remember if there were farms near this path, or one of the small herbalist’s cottages. Never in her life had she been lost in the Gardens, so attuned was she to its trails and patterns. On the heels of that thought came another, bold and shocking. I do not know where I am.

  The high, thick canopy blocked the position of the sun. Moss grew near her feet and against the base of the trees, but was untouched by sunlight and thus gave her no sense of direction.

  At first, she thought it was a trick of her imagination, but in moments she realized it was no illusion. The forest was growing darker around her. There was no more rustling of life in her vicinity. Even the birds had grown quiet.

  The Gardens of Almhain are no more.

  She saw clearly the first orange licks of flame in the distance. The wind turned almost on command, drawing the choking, acrid scent of burning trees. She coughed, lifted her sleeve to cover her nose and mouth.

  “The heart of the land is Calabria, and nothing may destroy it,” she chanted, as tears filled her eyes and she watched the Gardens burn. “Nothing may destroy it.”

  Arturo. Lenora. Devlin. Diego. Finnéces. Edan. Astin. Eduardo. Rodrigo. Alvar. Mufahti. Ezekiel. Serephina.

  Their faces arose in her memory and a burning heat filled the Stone of Beginning. She staggered and fell heavily against a tree, hands clutching her chest. Her heart held the weight of thousands of beats, her blood pumped for thousands of hearts.

  “Calabria!” she screamed.

  Yesss, child.

  She sobbed with relief, the pain easing somewhat at his familiar sibilant voice. “What is happening, why am I here? Why do I feel this unbearable pressure?”

  All that I wasss, you are.

  Foreboding came in a wave of flame-hot air and ash. “What do you mean?”

  It isss the only way.

  “The only way to what?” she cried. “What are you talking about?”

  The Gatess have opened. The heart of the land iss given over to the needsss of the land. I will misss you, Issidora.

  His presence began to fade, and there was finality to his words that rocked her against the tree, filled her with rage and grief. “No! Shenlith!”

  The Derkesthai beckon me to the skiess beyond Beyond. Now, child, you musst come home to Calabria, for you are the land’s heart.

  The flames flared high and near, blinding her, but the shock was nothing against the tearing sorrow of losing Shenlith.

  Come home, he whispered. Home.

  Darkness closed around her, slackened her limbs and pulled her eyelids closed. There was no danger in it, though, for it was the warm cocoon of Shenlith’s love in which she was embraced. She felt again the awesome sensation of flying atop the dragon, buffeted by winds, the great whooshing rhythm of his wings.

  He left her slowly, eased the transition with a faint hiss of goodbye.

  The heaviness in her chest was more manageable now, the balance of her body not so difficult to maintain. She opened her eyes slowly and stared at the thick, smacking lips and square teeth of a horse. A woman’s voice spoke her name and above, a dark figure slid from the beast’s back.

  Lenora di Salvatoré’s face wavered before her, streaked with grime and tears. “My lady,” she said in a high voice of panic. “Isidora, are you all right? You just appeared out of nowhere before my horse. Are you injured?”

  She cleared her throat, said hoarsely, “No.”

  Lenora released her pent breath. “Good.”

  Isidora looked up at the black sky, the hazy red sun. They stood alone on open grassland several miles south of Vianalon; the city itself was strangely concealed by luminous, swirling fog. Through the numbness of her grief stabbed the first tremor of fear.

  “Wha—what’s happened?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” Lenora replied, issuing a shrill laugh. “Borgetza… has fallen to a strange pox. I do not know what has become of Vianalon. I am… was travelling to see if anyone was still…” She gasped. “I don’t know how I am alive, or if the whole world is dead!”

  Isidora took a breath, tasting the metallic air. “It is the vengeance of the Gods,” she whispered. Dread bloomed in her chest. She rolled her eyes to the sky, flinching at the swift passing of a flock of creatures whose wings were wreathed in fire. “Phoenix!” she cried.

  The moment she named them, she knew it for error. Summoned, the creatures cried out, high and piercing, and began a swift turn.

  In a new, strangely calm tone, Lenora inquired, “Might you undo what you have done?”

  “If I knew what I had done,” she stammered, shaking her head wildly.

  The palfrey sensed the approaching danger, issuing a soft whinny. Lenora laid her hand on the beast’s head and it stilled. “We are helpless, then,” she sighed, watching the descent of the fiery predators.

  The flames of their wings were brighter now, the outlines of their bodies visible. Sharp, elongated beaks extended from narrow heads crowned with golden feathers. Their sleek bodies were dark, clawed feet tucked tight to their bellies. In truth they were quite beautiful, wings wreathed in dusky flame beating gracefully, each in tune to its brother so that the whole flock moved like a dart of fire through the sky.

  Isidora watched them, her legs heavy as lead, and felt unexpected sorrow. Once, the phoenix had flown freely through the skies, as freely as the Derkesthai. Both races, and many others, had been destroyed by the greed and vanity of Mankind. It was no surprise that they came when the Gods beckoned, offering vengeance for the unjust severing of their bloodlines.

  With sorrow came compassion, and as Isidora lifted the Stone of Beginning, she did it with love in her heat. Calabria’s love, which was unconditional.

  There was no sunlight to catch the crystal, as it had that long past day on the docks of L�
�Sere. A trick of the light, Arturo had proclaimed it. Isidora had told him otherwise, but a part of her had doubted her faith. Her faith was changed now.

  The amulet flashed, so brilliant and blue that for a moment, the diseased sky was bright again. The phoenixes lifted their heads abruptly and changed course, cawing as they sped away. Isidora smothered the amulet with her fingers but it glowed through her skin, illumining a wide swath of land in all directions.

  There would be no hiding from the Gods’ eyes.

  Both women turned as the palfrey reared violently, tearing away from Lenora’s loose hold. Isidora caught her as she stumbled back. They held each other in mute shock as the animal clawed the air in silent struggle and finally screamed. Its voice was oddly human, blatantly suffering. The graceful neck twisted, its hide rippled unnaturally, spreading sable coloring across its body and down its legs. When its hooves touched land again, it bowed a head from which sprung a mighty horn.

  Isidora barely managed to keep Lenora upright as her knees buckled. She looked from the creature to her slack-faced companion. “It seems we have an ally, after all,” she murmured, eliciting a gruff laugh and swift recovery from Lenora. Isidora released her arm and took a hesitant step forward. The unicorn didn’t move, only rolled a dark, glistening eye to follow her progress.

  Thank you for this woman’s life, she offered silently, running fingers lightly down its side.

  Though no heartbeat sounded in the chest beneath her gentle hand, Isidora knew the beast heard her by a flicker of light within the great, pearly horn. The unicorn gave a hearty shake from head to tail and gracefully lowered her front legs. Isidora mounted first and Lenora sprang up easily behind her. Neither woman had any doubts of where the beast would take them.