The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  They moved through the dark night cocooned in the light of the Stone of Beginning. Shadows flickered outside the circumference, testing its boundaries, searching for weakness. There were none to find, as no weakness existed in Calabria’s heart.

  Before long they sighted their destination, though nothing could have prepared them for it. They dismounted before the first line of stone figures, the vanguard of Serephina’s army. In the soft light of the amulet, the faces of Mufahti and his men looked achingly alive.

  “Who are they?” Lenora whispered, eyes scanning their dark, foreign features.

  “The honor guard of Duke Alvar Damáskenos,” Isidora replied sadly. “They are warriors from a distant land, brave and honorable.”

  “Thank you, my lady, for your regard,” Mufahti said with a bow. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Lenora stifled a scream with her hand as Isidora stammered, “What—how is it…?”

  Mufahti’s teeth gleamed. “The stone did not take us,” he replied, glancing back over the field of statues. “It was the mighty dragon that did this, but we are not of Calabria’s bloodline.”

  Ghali stepped forward and said softly, “Given what beasts have since hunted among us, it is well they are stone.”

  “Yes,” Isidora murmured, turning her eyes from the rows of frozen figures. Arturo was somewhere among them, as was Devlin. Stone. Forcing her mind away from the thought, Isidora focused on Mufahti and his men. She frowned, felt a prick of knowing even as she asked, “Where are Habib, Luka, and Kahlil?”

  Ghali and Otieno bowed their heads, their fingers tracing symbols before their chests.

  Mufahti’s lips thinned. “Death has taken them home to the desert,” he said thickly. “We were attacked from the sky by serpents with wings of bone and fangs of venom. Our brothers fell without honor, without being given the chance to defend. Our weapons pierced the beasts but they sustained no injury. Unnatural, death-touched creatures. We would have all succumbed, yet a sudden light in the sky drove them away.” His dark eyes gazed appraisingly at the beacon in Isidora’s hand. “Your light, was it?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “It is the Stone of Beginning.”

  His eyes flickered toward the silent army. “What else might it accomplish?” he questioned.

  Isidora took a breath. “I don’t know. Would you take me to Arturo, please?”

  Mufahti nodded and began walking with a sure stride through the field of stone. Ghali and Otieno fell in behind the women, eyeing the unicorn that ambled dutifully after them.

  The light of the amulet cast the statues in eerie relief. All faces were turned skyward, expressions ranging from fear to awe to joy. Hands were frozen reaching for weapons or warding off unseen enemies. The robes of veiled-ones were caught in motion, the stone ripples seeming to possess movement as light and shadow played across them.

  Lenora saw them first, darted forward to where Devlin stood lifelessly. His face was unveiled, his features set in rigid lines as he faced the possibility of death. She reached up to touch the solid line of his mouth but her hand flinched away before contact.

  Beside him stood Arturo and his face, too, held the emotion of his final moment. His lips were slightly parted, as though he had just spoken or had been poised to speak. In the absence of his life, Isidora was filled with memories of it. The golden fire in his eyes that few had ever witnessed, the plains of his face that so resembled the God’s.

  Since first opening her eyes in that dingy tavern and seeing his face by candlelight, she had known his lineage. But knowing was different from accepting, and only now did she accept.

  “He is the God’s child,” she stated.

  Lenora met her gaze. “We have always suspected, Astin and I. In Avosilea, there is a tale of his conception. His mother visited the eyrie twice, the second time in her middle years. It is said she met the God and returned carrying a child.”

  “He is not aware of the rumor?” she asked.

  Lenora shook her head. “No. We did not believe he would accept it.”

  In her mind’s eye, Isidora imagined the clacking of ivory beads across the Nameless’ swollen knuckles. “Arturo,” she whispered, stepping close to him. “You must awaken, my love. I need you. Calabria needs you. Borgetza has fallen, Shenlith is dead. The Gates have opened and the land is overrun. We must stop the Gods before there is no life left in all of the peninsula.”

  She might have imagined it, but she thought she felt a whisper of his breath. “You are the son of the God, Arturo de Galván. You are the tool of Calabria’s need.” She swallowed stabbing grief and said, “I am Calabria, my love.”

  “Love,” he croaked from a stone throat. “No.”

  He fought the stone and tiny cracks appeared on his face and chest. “Yes, Arturo,” she urged. “Come back to me.” She placed the amulet against his chest, the crystal that was Shenlith’s tear and in which resided the heartbeats of life. His stone flesh grew warm, the dead grey matter melting. The cracks grew wider as they fought together, she pushing life into him, he pulling upon it with all his will.

  The ground shifted and the land groaned. Fault lines opened, revealing grass and soil.

  Lenora cried, “Devlin!” as the Master of Knives jerked and toppled. He hit the ground forcefully and the sound was like an explosion. Lenora screamed helplessly as hundreds of tiny pieces of rock scattered at her feet.

  For one instant, Isidora was breathless, mindless, imagining a man broken into innumerable pieces. Then the dust cleared and the light touched upon a gasping, shuddering man. Devlin had barely relearned to breathe when Lenora collapsed on top of him, wailing as though her heart were broken.

  There was a touch of warmth on Isidora’s cheek, followed by the slide of fingers, then a familiar palm as Arturo turned her face toward him. Stone dust had colored his hair nearly white. She traced a finger across his cheek, leaving a line of flesh through the grime. His eyes shone golden through and through, the human brown finally defeated.

  “You heard me,” she said.

  He nodded, eyes so very bright as he glanced quickly around. “It was not a dream,” he remarked. The piercing gaze returned to her. “And neither were your words.”

  She shook her head, caught between rising happiness and doubt. “Do you feel… differently?” she asked, and held her breath in expectation.

  Slowly, he nodded. “Tingling, everywhere,” he said haltingly. “Heat pooling in my hands.” He lifted them up, stared at them as though they belonged to another. They showed no outward signs of the gift blossoming with him; nevertheless, Isidora could feel the waves of power emanating from him, rushing against her skin like celestial winds. It felt familiar, so akin to the Goddess’ cool pulse. Only hot, evoking memories of shimmering heat, of endless skies.

  Thank you, Shenlith.

  “Your mother, Arturo,” began Devlin, gaining his feet with effort. Lenora still wept, though quietly, her face against his chest. “She was mistress to Anshar. Your birth was foretold by the Nameless and written in the stars above Dunak. The families of Avosilea knew it, too, when your mother visited the eyrie a second time and gave birth nine months later.”

  Arturo gave a halfhearted chuckle. The sky was bloodied above, strange shadows whipping and swirling within it. Vianalon was encased in a cocoon of shimmering, unearthly fog. He stood amidst an army of stone. He understood the gravity, the magnitude of Shenlith’s sacrifice and the weighty mantel now resting upon Isidora’s shoulders. He remembered, too, the rare visits to Avosilea by the Sea, and the strange looks of the townsfolk.

  There was little that could shock him anymore, so he held up his hands. “And what am I supposed to do with this, then? Launch lightning bolts at the Gods?”

  No one answered him, but Devlin’s gaze moved to Isidora. “Your birth, too, was foretold. Queen who will never be queen. Not of men, that is.” He releas
ed Lenora long enough to execute a strange salutation, one knee bent, fingers splayed intricately over his heart. “Mighty Calabria, keeper of domhain lár, Priestess of the Root. The Master of Knives is your servant.”

  It was her naming; Isidora could feel it in her gut. On Alesia—it seemed lifetimes ago—she had experienced it when her mother had named her High Priestess of Istar. Again, in a lesser degree, when Arturo had titled her Priestess of Calabria.

  She was something else now, the Goddess no longer her patron. Nor was she Priestess of Calabria exactly, for she did not serve the land. When she looked at Arturo, saw the gold of his eyes, she knew, finally and completely, Shenlith’s demand. They were the answer to the needs of domhain lár, just as Anshar and Istar had been an eon ago. Only more so, perhaps, because the Serpent of the Root was gone, and the heart of the land was now in her keeping.

  The amulet began to pulse in her hand, so brightly that all save Arturo shielded their eyes. She heard the whispers of thousands of hearts, clamoring for freedom. The veiled-ones sang most clearly, desiring to serve, eternal in their devotion to the land.

  Isidora closed her eyes and allowed herself to be immersed in the light. She floated in the sea of voices, listening with all of her being to the countless fears and dreams.

  There was Hadrian’s faith, Lucero’s gentle love, Finnéces and Edan’s hopes for peace. Rodrigo Vasquez longed to set his sword against those who had slaughtered his family. Manual de Lucía prayed for a chance to avenge his son and see his wife again. Diego Roldan wished, still, to see creatures of infamy and legend.

  Voices, and more voices, trapped in stone but alive, dreaming of seeing their families once more, of rocking grandchildren to sleep, of kissing daughters and kneeling at their mothers’ knees. Voice clamoring for freedom, for life and sorrow and love. Always, love.

  So with love in her heart, she set them free.

  Chapter Forty

  Lenora spoke in a tense tone to a council of Queen Serephina, King Manual, Duke Damáskenos, and the Master of Knives. She did not soften her words for her company, describing in detail the horror of the plague and Terrin’s death at her hands. Standing on the outskirts, their attentions focused not on the conversation but upon the eerie glow of Vianalon, were Arturo and Isidora. They studied the swift, cyclical currents of the cyclone.

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” Isidora murmured.

  “Nor do I,” answered Arturo. He sighed, glancing at Devlin, whose head turned sharply toward them. The men’s gazes were locked for several heartbeats; in the end, it was Devlin’s gaze that broke contact.

  Isidora slipped her fingers through her husband’s, relishing the crackle of their powers mingling. Arturo gave a little laugh. “Is it foolish, love, that I wish to order you to stay?”

  “Yes,” she said with a small smile.

  They stood in silence for a moment more, then took a first step, and a second, away from the army. Into the dark they walked, each step taking them further from the protective glow of the Stone of Beginning. The amulet continued to pulse happily, safe in Finnéces’ hands.

  They had walked no more than a hundred yards when they stopped. Overhead, the sun dimmed abruptly, leeching almost entirely of color. The mists around Vianalon were now shot through with darker currents and the cyclone began spinning faster, growing thicker and expanding further above the city. Isidora’s heart beat frantically, mirroring the land’s distress. Arturo’s palm was damp against hers.

  The voice behind them made them both jump. “Did you forget something?” demanded Diego, glaring down at them from his saddle. The steed beneath him huffed, nervous eyes rolling between the unnatural fog and the unnatural unicorn standing placidly nearby.

  “This fight is not yours, brother,” Arturo said urgently.

  “The hell it isn’t!” Diego hollered. “Now get your asses on this damned unicorn so we can get this battle started. The others will just have to catch up.”

  Isidora noticed warmth in her chest a moment before her eyes registered the thick line of dark figures approaching from the west. “The veiled-ones come,” she whispered.

  As the angry light from Vianalon bled toward the Children of Calabria, the shapes of seven riders became clear at their head. Mufahti, Ghali, and Otieno rode just behind Manual de Garcia, Gustav the Red, and Rodrigo Vasquez. The last rider was Astin di Salvatoré.

  Through Isidora’s mind whispered the voice of the Master of Knives, Tell Arturo that the choice was not a choice, really.

  “Devlin says—”

  “I heard him,” Arturo interjected, stroking the unicorn’s soft hide. He swung onto the animal’s back and extended his hand. “It was wrong of us to try to make their choice.”

  She felt what he did not say and let him pull her up. The otherworldly creature, attuned to its riders’ need, reared almost until standing. They hung suspended for a heartbeat, hands tangled in the shining mane, then gasped together as the unicorn hurtled forward.

  Diego’s raised voice was lost in the driving wind as the unrivaled speed of their mount carried them fast toward the city. In less than a minute, the gulf between them and their allies had extended to a mile.

  The wall of mist grew closer; a damp, musty scent reached them. Soon, stems of fog unraveled to either side of the unicorn’s pounding hooves. The cyclone loomed before them, an impassable barricade of power. The air grew stifling thick, heavy with the stench of metals, mildew, and blood.

  Arturo began pulling on the unicorn’s mane, urging the animal to halt. It did not respond but galloped faster, so fast that the riders no longer felt the impact of its hooves on the ground. The world grew strangely blurred; the land they traveled was featureless white. Now and again snaking threads of bloody red darted toward them, seeking their bodies. When the tendrils neared, the unicorn’s horn would blaze brilliant gold, driving away the attacks.

  When Time Itself had begun to lose distinction and the riders came near to forgetting their purpose, even their names, the mists began to thin. Gaps in the cyclone showed them that they were within the city, travelling a main thoroughfare toward the gates of the palace. Snippets of color, form, were absorbed by their eyes, arranged and recognized only after the sights were gone.

  A woman screaming as fast as she drew breath; a child staring wide-eyed at a man’s headless corpse. A group of men armed with nothing more than kitchen knives, surrounded by wolves the size of mountain lions. A massive, slug-like creature attacking a townhouse, its saliva burning through the stone wall. A room of people screaming, thrashing in horror.

  Each scene was worse, more gruesome than the last, until Isidora was forced to close her eyes. Borgetza’s army, fallen to disease of the flesh. It had seemed a fitting punishment for their sins. This, however, was the chaotic, meaningless slaughter of innocents. Almost, she had believed that they would find the army of the Church attacked and decimated, the people of Vianalon spared. Almost, she had believed that the Gods would have mercy.

  Instead, they had none.

  Had the transition from speed to stillness been less sudden, they would have doubtlessly somersaulted off the unicorn’s back. It was, however, so instantaneous that their bodies did not have the time to register natural law. One moment they were moving, the next they were not.

  The unicorn stood calmly in the vacant courtyard before the God’s Holiest Church.

  Arturo dismounted, reached up to help Isidora to the ground. She touched the unicorn’s mane in thanks; a soft ear flicked back toward her hand.

  “Somehow, I knew it would end here,” said Arturo, gazing up at the vaulted entrance. The courtyard was mostly free of cloud though no sky was visible above. The low ceiling of fog illumined the golden dome, which bathed their surroundings in a bright, almost serene glow.

  They both knew who awaited them within the Church. Hand in hand, they walked up the marble steps and acros
s the threshold of the God’s House. The smell of decay grew more pronounced as they entered the nave. Light danced in colored shafts from the stained glass windows, twinkling across the rows of empty pews. The altar was aglow with the soft light of tens of thick, white candles.

  The golden disc of the God was missing.

  Where the effigy had hung stood man whose robes, skin, and hair all glistened gold. His back was facing them, his head bent forward as if in prayer. As they drew nearer, however, the God shifted so that they could see the man kneeling before him. His face was tilted upward, features slack, drool hanging in a thick line from his lower lip.

  Luther Viccole.

  “My son, daughter-in-law,” said Anshar without turning. “Be welcome in my House.”

  The voice of the God was somewhat anticlimactic for Arturo, who had imagined thunder and windows shattering. Isidora was less surprised; deity or no, he had once been a human man.

  Anshar turned further toward them, offering a glimpse of his profile. It was streaked with moving, pulsing streams of light, details indistinct though the features bore a marked resemblance to his son.

  “How was the ride?” Anshar asked ironically. “Not too disconcerting, I hope.”

  “The unicorn…” Arturo trailed off.

  “Yes,” supplied the God. “She is a rare creature, the only one of her kind whose spirit survived a most brutal death. I sent her forth in dual purpose. One, to safeguard Lenora di Salvatoré from Borgetza’s punishment. Two, to find you and bring you here.”

  Arturo’s brows drew together. “Why?”

  There was silence but for the small gasps of candlewicks. The God turned away, blocking their sight of Viccole with his wide, golden back. “Why,” he echoed, and there was a sea of sorrow in his rich voice. “I have asked myself that question countless times. Why did I let Istar take the Stone of Beginning from Calabria, thus creating the barren sands of Dunak and weakening the heart of the land? Why did I stay to watch the slow, inevitable decline of our blessed peninsula? Why did my own High Priest order the burning of Alesia, the last untouched refuge of our bloodline?”