The Gardens of Almhain

by Laura Mallory

  In a private ceremony that evening, the most famous names in Calabria gathered to say their farewells to Mufahti, Ghali, and Otieno, who in the morning would board an eastbound galley to return at last to their desert home. It was rumored that before departing, they finally revealed the nature of their long-held compact with Duke Damáskenos. The audience, including the duke and the queen and king of Tanalon, sat in silence before finally, Arturo Bellamont and Devlin al’Ven began to laugh. Lenora di Salvatoré then led a poignant toast to the follies of gambling men.

  As Mufahti and his men sailed home, Tanalon’s queen and king left for a different desert. In a caravan led and protected by Calabria’s Guard and thirteen veiled-ones, they traveled north to Dunak. In the Oasis capital of his homeland, Ezekiel ibn Dukari at last claimed his father’s ivory scepter. None of his brothers disputed his right; indeed, they rejoiced in the end of a decade of civil war.

  The Master of Knives, Tomaz, was named Regent of Dunak.

  After centuries of obscurity and life underground, the Children of Calabria stood free above the land and beneath the God’s sun. Many unveiled themselves and settled into productive lives among the city’s exotic populace. Others, including Tomaz himself, kept the veil and the ancient traditions.

  Before Ezekiel took his wife home to Vianalon, he passed along a final gift to the Children. Something that had been taken long ago and for which they had waited centuries to keep again. It is said that the eyes of the Master of Knives glistened as he unwrapped the silk casing and viewed Isidora Fiannan’s gift. The Stone of Beginning, stolen by Istar, renewed by Shenlith, and returned by the Priestess of the Root to its rightful resting place.

  In the years and decades to follow, Nature’s balance returned to Dunak. Fierce winter storms pushed the forbidding dunes seaward, creating a coastline of thick beaches against the churning northern sea. Spring rains bloated narrow fissures that had once been rivers, filled basins that had once been lakes. Where sand had stifled life before now sprouted fields of grass. Where only cloudless, barren skies had hung heavy over the desert, now the sun shone warm and sweet on the God’s birthplace.

  As it is written, so it is truth.

  Lucero Tuturro,

  Adept Scholar, Head of the Academe des Viana

  There was more to the story, Hadrian knew. Much that had yet to be written, entire chapters of life and detail left untouched. His fingers passed lovingly across the last of his father’s words, scrawled on a final page.

  There is no ending, but one story goes untold here. It is yours to finish.

  Your loving father,

  L

  Epilogue

  The Priestess of the Root stood in the Sanctuary of Avosilea, a solitary figure in a long white gown. Clouds chased moonlight across her youthful face, her smooth golden skin. Her eyes were closed, nostrils flared slightly as she captured a warm, salty sea breeze. It teased the sleeves of her dress, played with the golden sash around her hips, and finally rose in a gust to the branches of the great tree that was Sanctuary’s epicenter.

  The borders of the sacred space were held by thirty slim marble columns, joined at the tops by a graceful circle of intricately carved blocks. The precious stone had been shipped from overseas and donated by Duke Rodrigo Vasquez. But that had been many, many years ago, and now the columns’ white surfaces were all but concealed by the growth of vines.

  The space all around the tree was empty but for narrow, winding paths amid seasonal wildflowers. Outside the western curve of Sanctuary was a high knoll, at the top of which rested two massive memorials crafted of the same snowy marble. The words etched into the bases of the monuments were beginning to erode; having them renewed was one task on a seemingly endless list of tasks to accomplish.

  Isidora Fiannan took a deep breath and considered making the walk to visit Shenlith and La Soñadora. It was one of her very favorite places, a peaceful, windy apex between the Gardens and the beautiful cove beyond. In the last fifty years, she had begun visiting the site often, sometimes four or five times weekly. Mostly when the moon was high, for it was less likely she would be bothered by visitors and their ceaseless questions.

  It was harder now for them to travel outside Avosilea. Their faces and names were well known, as were their legendary deeds thanks to a wildly popular, mass-produced tome entitled The Longest Road. Written by the High Cleric Hadrian Visconte, the fictional narrative was nevertheless based on the true events of their lives from the Isle of Alesia’s fall to the planting of the Gardens of Avosilea.

  Mostly, though, it was the sustained youth of their faces that made travelling difficult. They did not wish to be worshipped. Neither did they encourage the faithful that flocked daily to the Gardens of Avosilea for the chance of glimpsing them, of speaking with them about domhain lár, or the death of the Goddess, or their time with the God.

  Their children were parents in their own rights, two of them grandparents. The births of their sons and daughters were some of the most joyful memories they kept. That joy, and the trials and blessings of raising them had stayed in their hearts, had helped soften the grief the first time one of their children had requested they not visit as often. Anshar had prepared them for it, and though the pain was great, they understood and respected their wishes.

  So they led reclusive lives, kept to themselves and to their immortal companions, who had been touched as they had by the powers of Shenlith and La Soñadora. There were very few left of those who had lived during the peninsula’s tumultuous period of unrest, who had witnessed the awesome events of the Day of the Death. The stories remained, however, read in books and told as bedtime stories. The past was remembered so as not to be repeated.

  Just yesterday, they had received word from Vianalon, the missive delivered by a young, nervous soldier of Calabria’s Guard. It was from Alvar de la Caville, Serephina’s eldest son who had been ruling well for some ten years, since the death of his father. The queen mother had grown ill recently; it was believed that she would soon follow her love, Ezekiel, into the Beyond.

  Isidora counted the years since she’d last visited her sister. It had been too many. At the request of King Alvar, two days hence they would leave Avosilea for a final visit with the queen. Serephina had requested their company. It was the least they could do to repay her for the long, fulfilling years of friendship and council, for the restoration of Calabria and the happiness of its people.

  There was a muted footfall on the path behind her.

  “Thinking of the past, love?” asked her husband.

  “No,” she said, smiling as she turned. Arturo’s golden eyes met hers, then dropped lovingly to the swollen mound of her belly. “I am thinking of the future.”

  “Ah.” He reached her side, sliding his hands beneath her hair to draw her close. “As am I,” he murmured. “I’m hungry and we’re late for dinner.”

  Isidora laughed, batting at his hand. “What has Pandion created this time? Jellyfish that taste of meatballs?”

  Arturo grinned. “Lenora wouldn’t allow another of his experiments in her kitchen, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh? That’s too bad,” she said sweetly.

  “I heard that!” called Pandion, striding into view at the Garden’s edge. Now a man in his prime, he walked with the confident stride of one who has found his place in the world and is content. He approached them on the path, adding, “I’ll have you know, Devlin liked my last recipe.”

  “He was lying,” Arturo said blandly. Isidora pinched him lightly and he amended, “I’m sure it was well suited to his palate.”

  Pandion chuckled and hooked his thumbs through his belt. “So, fair Calabria? To what residence of the illustrious al’Ven’s do we travel tonight? Thieves alley? Cartenía? Or Dunak?”

  Isidora tilted her head thoughtfully, one hand resting idly on her belly. In a moment she blinked, smiling blithely. “They are in Damáske
nos with the duke.”

  “Splendid!” Pandion said, clapping his hands. “We haven’t seen Edan in years! I heard he recently became a grandfather for the third time. It will be well to visit with him.”

  “And with Finnéces,” Arturo murmured gently, taking his wife’s hand.

  She nodded. “Pandion? Will you bring a seed from the Gardens for us to plant at his gravesite?”

  Pandion grinned, moonlight winking in his eyes. “I have one with me for just that purpose.”

  “Clever man,” she laughed.

  “Well?” Arturo asked abruptly. “As I said, I’m starving.”

  Pandion took their hands in his. For the space of several breaths, the three stood in a circle beneath the ancient tree. The taproot of the Gardens of Avosilea, the last of the trees to have grown from the great domhain lár, waved its sinuous branches around them. Vines curled toward their forms, grazed their clasped hands in benediction.

  The Child of Time drew them forth, toward a hot meal and the company of friends.

  Toward beginnings.

  The End.