A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Glorian gazed out at the Ashen Sea, eyes raw from lack of sleep. Her hair clung to her cheeks as the wind battered her cloak.

Every fire tower was lit to guide the Shearwater. Grey fret mantled the waves. To distract herself from what might lie unseen and hungry in that fog, she pictured her mother huddled in a rowboat, and her father warming her with his bearskin, fist raised to signal the ship.

‘Glorian.’ Julain touched her elbow. ‘We’re here.’

Summerport was named for the sandstone of its buildings, a rich honey yellow that warmed the heart after a crossing. It warmed hers, in that first moment of seeing it. They had survived a haunted sea.

Rain battered the red tiled roofs. People in the harbour went about their lives, not noticing who had just arrived. Lord Robart had chosen to borrow a modest ship from a merchant.

To avoid attention, the Dukes Spiritual separated to cross Summerport. Lord Robart led Glorian through the cobbled streets, flanked by the Royal Guard. In the warmer months, Summerport came alive with pink sea thrift, and its doorways cascaded with coral roses – but in winter, in her sorrow, all Glorian could see was decay: the wet rot in the planks, the cracks and tiny holes where the salt wind had chewed on the buildings.

‘Queen Sabran!’

A woman had opened her shutters to wave. All along the street, voices, hands and cheers rose at once, chatter erupting. ‘Your Grace,’ they called to her. ‘Your Grace, welcome back!’

Glorian stopped. It was only thanks to the fog and her cloak that anyone could have made the mistake. She and her mother had shared the same features, but Glorian had a fuller shape, and her manners tutor had not yet managed to school a queenly posture into her.

Lord Robart gave her a small nod. Glorian raised a tentative hand, and the cheers became a roar of welcome.

Her hood kept her face concealed as the court rode northwest out of Summerport. The sea road was as thick with fog. Beside her, Lord Robart sat proud and wordless, a cliff of a man, gloved hands tight on the reins of his destrier. He cut a daunting figure at the best of times, but astride that warhorse, he was almost as tall as her father.

She resolved to make conversation. He was to rule in her name for over a year. ‘Lord Robart,’ she said, ‘I understand there has been drought in Inys. Will this rain be a remedy?’

‘I’m sure it will be of some help, Highness. Get the rivers flowing, at the very least,’ Lord Robart said, ‘but it may not resolve the drought altogether. It’s been worsening for years.’

‘Do you know the cause?’

‘No. Only that the ground is thirstier than usual, despite the rain. Nature must have her secrets.’

‘Indeed. Last year, I heard of strange happenings in the haithwood,’ Glorian said. ‘It borders your province, does it not?’

‘Yes, though I leave its care to the Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch and the Barons Glenn.’ He wore a sword at his side. ‘Deep forests always invite strangeness, whether real or imagined.’

‘In the spring, a knight found suspicious rocks there. Did he ever return with news?’

‘Sir Landon Croft was never found. A tragic case of misadventure, in my view, Highness. He went looking for wolves, and likely found them. There are bears in the haithwood, too.’

‘Do you think the bears’ hunger is what started the rumours of a witch?’

‘Possibly.’ Lord Robart glanced at her. ‘What do you know of the Lady of the Woods?’

‘Very little, except that some believe in her.’

‘Aye. When the world is awry, some find comfort in the old ways. It won’t endanger your rule, Highness.’

It was dusk by the time they rode into Ascalun, capital of the Queendom of Inys. Its castle had pale sturdy walls, which loomed above a deep crook in the River Limber. Under the Malkin Queen, its water had reeked like a corpse. Now it was clear and frozen stiff.

In five centuries, there had been no wars or sieges here. Ascalun was unconquered.

Her mother had grown up in the castle. Glorian had been born there, like most Berethnet women. The bells had rung for days, and all had called her the Gift of Halgalant, for with her arrival all wounds had been healed. I was meant to bring peace, she thought. Now I stand on the brink of war.

Snow was banked on every street, dirty and trampled, torn by footprints. The procession rode through the wards of the capital, where torches lit the pending night. They had arrived at eventide, when most of the city would be at home or in the sanctuaries at prayer.

Still, a royal entry required ceremony, even when unexpected. Trumpets called out her approach. Glorian set her gaze on the castle and withdrew into the secret place inside her, where she could not hear or see.

The ride passed like a dream. Blazing torches, candles fretting in windows, rain against her face. People shouted out to her, still thinking she was her mother, returned from the North. Only when they were past the castle gates did she breathe painlessly again.

‘Lady Florell, take Her Royal Highness to her old rooms in the Queens’ Tower,’ Lord Robart said. ‘She must be very tired.’

****

The Queens’ Tower – called the King’s Tower for centuries, before the name became absurd – had been made to withstand both attack and invasion. Its sides were round and sanded, impossible to climb, not one foothold between its lower windows. Glorian followed Florell up hundreds of steps.

Her bedchamber was just as she remembered it. A fire crackled in the arched hearth, and a supper of game stew and hot wastel had been left on a table. Helisent removed her damp cloak for her.

‘I wish to bathe,’ Glorian said, as if from a distance. ‘I have a chill.’

Florell nodded. ‘Mariken,’ she said to her Mentish servant, ‘have hot baths prepared for everyone, if you would.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I’m well, Florell,’ Julain said, her voice quaking a little. ‘I should stay with Glorian.’

‘Julain.’ Florell took her by the shoulders. ‘You cannot watch over a princess – or a queen – if you don’t have a care for yourself first. All of us are grieving and shaken.’ She took the cloak from Helisent. ‘Go, all of you, and rest this night. Mariken will bring your supper.’

Glorian sank on to the bed and took off her gloves. She was too tired to cry, or to undress, or do anything but stare at the nearest candle.

She wondered if her parents had been taken by the fire, or by the sea.

‘Sweeting,’ Florell said, ‘may I speak frankly – as your mother’s friend, and yours?’

‘I do not expect deference from you of all people, Florell.’

‘You should expect it from us all. In seven days, you will be Queen of Inys.’

Glorian managed a nod.

‘The Lord Protector is a resolute man, of holy blood and iron will,’ Florell said. ‘He may yet prove dependable, but we must have a care in the months to come. Regencies can be a dangerous time.’

‘How so?’

‘A regent has the means to shut a young queen out of Inysh affairs. That would create a weak ruler, dependent and easy to manipulate. After the Century of Discontent, we can let no one think that of you, Glorian. Lord Robart must always treat you as a queen. He must empower and nurture you. If he will not, it is a different sort of control that he craves.’

‘I’m sure that I can trust a man my mother held in such regard.’

‘Yes. I only ask you to remain vigilant while he wields the authority of the Saint, which belongs, by right, to the House of Berethnet.’ Florell sat beside her and took her by the hands. ‘Glorian, you are only sixteen. None of this should happen to a child – but your people will look to you for strength and courage. They must come to love and respect you. Not another.’

‘How do I persuade them to love me?’ Glorian asked her. ‘How did my mother?’

‘You know how. You watched her for years,’ Florell said. ‘Queen Sabran was devoted to her duty. She was firm but fair, which meant she was respected, but not feared. Your situation is different. You will need a coronation, as soon as possible, to show yourself to the people. You will need an heir. You will need nobles who are loyal to you above your regent.’

Glorian bit her lip. If Florell had not been grasping her hands, they would have trembled.

‘Do the Dukes Spiritual doubt me?’ she said. ‘Do they think it was the Nameless One that set the ships to light?’

For the first time, she noticed that Florell had aged. She saw the whorls of silver in her hair, tucked among the tow, and the lines that creased the skin around her eyes.

‘After the Dreadmount, they may have private doubts,’ Florell admitted. ‘So will your people.’

‘Do you, Florell?’

‘Never. Your mother was my dearest friend. I watched her pull this queendom from the brink. Unless I see the Nameless One with my own eyes, I will never believe he has returned. The Saint made Inys a promise, and I have faith in him. I have faith in you.’

The fire quickened the shadows, so nothing quite lay still.

‘I can make you look like a queen. Liuma taught me to do that,’ Florell said. ‘But you must show Inys who you are – the daughter of Sabran the Ambitious, the greatest queen in our history, and Bardholt Battlehold, whose name made the unfaithful quake.’

‘What if I cannot?’

‘Then you will show yourself to be a weak and ineffective queen, like your grandmother. Like the two queens before.’

She is too like my mother. Queen Sabran in her bedchamber, candlelit. I kept Marian away, all these years – but Glorian has her blood, too.

‘I need to speak to Mariken,’ Florell said. ‘Rest. I won’t be long.’

She left. Glorian worked off her own boots and sat in the silence of the bedchamber.

Show Inys who you are.

Some of her possessions were already here. In the smallest chest, she found the mirror her mother had given her. A younger, haunted portrait of Queen Sabran stared back.

Not her alone. No, this face was a legacy almost five centuries long, the chain, the endless vine. Nineteen queens with the same face all gazed out from the cold silver. Deep beneath, in her blood, was her father – never seen, but always present. All her life, she had defined herself by him, and by her mother. She had lived as, and in, their shadow.

Who was she without their light?

Who was Glorian Hraustr Berethnet?

****

The remainder of the twelve days passed slowly. In that time, Glorian did nothing of use. She walked in circles with her ladies. Little was said. Sometimes she gazed across at the White Tower, where the Dukes Spiritual met each day, and wondered what they spoke about.

She prayed: Gracious and loving forebear, send me a sign. Teach me how to atone for my sin, for my unwillingness to give. Saint over us all, in your virtue, heed my prayer. Grant me your forgiveness. Lend me your candle in the dark. Make me your instrument, your servant, your vessel. Send me word from Halgalant.

There was no answer. The woman from her dreams – her messenger – had gone silent.

She was abandoned after all.

****

On the eleventh day, Lord Robart summoned her. Before she left her bedchamber, Glorian looked once more in the mirror. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and tried to harden her drawn face into a mask, like the one her mother had always worn.

A future queen must know how she appears to others.

She could not bring a sword to a council meeting. Instead, she had asked for a leather jack, which called armour to mind, to be fastened over her pleated gown. Tonight, she would be every inch a queen and warrior, the heir and weave of Queen Sabran and King Bardholt.

Candles glowed in gold holders, and the shutters were closed against the wind. When she entered, the councillors rose. ‘Lady Glorian,’ Lord Robart said. ‘Good evening.’

Her heart clenched at the sight of him. He had told her she must not wear mourning dress until her parents’ death was known – yet there he stood, in a surcoat of fine grey wool over a lighter tunic, a dark mantle across his shoulders. Even his belt and fastenings were silver, washed of colour. The others wore the same.

‘You are in grey, Lord Robart,’ Glorian said, stunned.

‘As you see, Your Highness.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t receive my message?’

‘Is that not evident?’

Mortification stung her into the tart reply. Lord Robart inclined his head. ‘My sincere apologies. I prayed last night and felt we should begin mourning today. I will reprimand the messenger.’

She had to regain her composure. Expressionless, she sat, and so did they.

Her gown was a rich, deep blue. Not bright, but among her grey councillors, she must look insolent.

There was no firewood in the hearth. The only warmth and light came from the candles. ‘I hope you will forgive the cold,’ Lord Robart said. ‘I like to keep my mind sharp as I work.’

‘It is of no consequence to me, Lord Robart.’

‘Good. I have called you here to inform you that tomorrow, at noontide, the presumed deaths by drowning of Queen Sabran of Inys and King Bardholt of Hróth will be declared across Virtudom. Your own ascension to the throne will, of course, be proclaimed at the same time. In this way, the Queen’s Peace should hold.’

‘Have you searched the sea?’ Glorian asked Lady Gladwin.

‘Yes, Highness. I even sent divers to look for the wrecks, but little could be found.’

‘Do we know what caused the fires?’

‘I have made enquiries with the Steward of Mentendon. So far, there is no evidence that the wedding fleet came under attack. No weapon on this side of the Abyss could obliterate seven ships.’

‘On this side?’

‘Well, in theory, the Easterners could have one. We know so little of them, after all.’

‘Why should the Easterners want to harm us?’ Lade Edith said, frowning. ‘I doubt they know Inys exists.’

‘When I was a young man,’ Lord Randroth croaked, ‘I heard a rumour that a Southern prince survived crossing the Abyss. Years later, one of his servants returned, claiming the Easterners were enthralled to scaled creatures of the sky. I say it is a possibility.’

‘We should consider the Ersyris, too,’ Lady Brangain chimed in. ‘They are said to dabble in alchemy.’

The Duchet of Courtesy looked unconvinced.

‘I agree with Edith. I do not believe this has anything to do with the East, or the Ersyris. Neither of them has cause to attack us,’ Lady Gladwin said. ‘The Ments are the most likely. The murder of King Bardholt would send a message against the Vatten occupation. They could have harnessed the fire of the Dreadmount – they have lived in its shadow long enough.’

‘Initially, I suspected Vattenvarg. We know his strength on the sea,’ Lord Damud said, ‘but he makes no move to claim the Hróthi throne, which would seem to be his only motivation. I think the man too old and comfortable for war. He has no obvious grievances.’

Glorian said, ‘Then the Vatten stand with us?’

‘It would seem so, Highness. If this was a Mentish plot, they will find and punish the perpetrators.’

‘Whoever is responsible, we now have no choice but to announce your parents’ deaths.’ Lord Robart clasped his hands on the table. ‘The Steward of Mentendon has already informed Einlek Óthling. He is loath to be crowned, but understands the need for it.’

Little wonder Einlek was hesitant. He must fear his uncle would march in to reclaim the throne.

‘Your Highness, as I’m sure your parents told you, you must formally renounce your claim to Hróth – the strongest of anyone alive – and declare the line of succession vested in Einlek Óthling and his descendants,’ Lord Robart continued. ‘This is necessary, to secure the House of Hraustr.’

He beckoned a servant, who brought the document to Glorian. She silently read the words before her.

I, Glorian the Queen of Inys, the third of that name, descendant of King Galian the Saint and divine flesh of the House of Berethnet, the Chain upon the Nameless One, do here declare and affirm that I am the sole heir of the body of King Bardholt of Hróth, the first of that name, begotten on his lawful companion, Queen Sabran of Inys, the sixth of that name.

In this the five hundredth and eleventh year of the Common Era, I do freely relinquish my birthright to the Kingdom of Hróth, preferring my first cousin, Einlek Óthling, son of Ólrun Hraustr of Bringard, and those heirs of his body lawfully begotten, to hold that realm in perpetuity . . .

Since she was a child, she had known the day would come when she must abandon her dream of ruling Hróth. It deepened the dark pit of grief, but Einlek had already bled for his country, and her father had loved and trusted him. He would be a good king.

A quill was brought, and an inkhorn, filled with the blood of an oak gall. Glorian thought of the brandling worm again.

She dipped the quill. Some instinct made her touch her face, to assure herself she was still in the same skin, before she formed the signature she had learned on her twelfth birthday.

Glorian Quene of Inys

‘Einlek Óthling will not be crowned until he receives it, Highness,’ Lady Brangain said. ‘He awaits your blessing.’

‘After the announcement, mourning will begin in Inys,’ Lade Edith said, breaking a silence. ‘Usually, this would last six months. Since we have lost both our queen and her consort, twice as long would seem appropriate.’

‘We also think it proper to hold a symbolic entombment, six days after the announcement,’ Lord Damud said. ‘Your mother’s tomb stands ready at the Sanctuary of Queens. We propose that some of her possessions be placed inside, as well as the tooth held at Rathdun Sanctuary.’

Every queen gave a tooth to the ancient sanctuary in the north, in case her body should ever be lost. They were sacred relics, for even in death, a royal body was the realm. It had to be preserved, protected, laid to rest with due respect.

Glorian closed her eyes. Against her will, she pictured her mother on fire, her hair blazing away, skin melting like candlewax.

‘Yes. We must see my parents through the gates of Halgalant,’ she said, her voice straining. ‘I would also like the ceremony to acknowledge my lord father. One of his pelts, and his tooth, should be placed in the tomb. I believe he also provided one to Rathdun Sanctuary.’

‘His Grace pulled it out himself,’ Lord Randroth confirmed. ‘It will be brought to Ascalun.’

‘Very well.’ Glorian twined her fingers in her lap. ‘Has a day been set for my coronation?’

‘It will be in good time, Highness,’ said Lord Robart.

‘It is a matter of propriety,’ Lade Edith explained, before Glorian could ask. ‘The disappearance of the sovereign without proof of her death is unprecedented in Inysh history. Your mother cannot be declared officially dead without evidence. Before then, a coronation may not be considered appropriate, or in good taste – unless there were to be a witness. A survivor who could confirm or deny that Queen Sabran was deceased.’

‘We must be realistic, Edith. No one could have survived that sea,’ Lord Robart said. ‘There will be no witnesses.’

Lady Brangain looked away. Across from her, Lord Damud clasped his hands against his forehead.

‘If no witness comes forward, I recommend we wait at least until after the year of mourning,’ Lade Edith concluded. ‘By then, the people will have accepted you as queen, Highness.’

Glorian could not think of anything else to say. Pushing any harder for a coronation would make her seem heartless.

They cannot see the Malkin Queen.

‘So be it,’ she said. ‘A witness. Or a year. Has there been any word of the sickness that appeared in Hróth?’

Lord Robart raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you of that, Highness?’

Glorian met his gaze without answering. ‘Unfortunately, it has spread,’ Lord Damud answered. ‘Einlek Óthling has closed the ports. So far, there have been no outbreaks here, thank the Saint.’

Lord Randroth made the sign of the sword. ‘Perhaps we should close our ports, too,’ Glorian said. ‘As a precaution.’

‘We will keep a close watch on the situation.’ Lord Robart looked her in the eye. ‘If we might turn to a more urgent domestic matter, Highness.’

‘What is that, my lord?’

‘It is wise that you conceive an heir as soon as possible.’

Deep inside Glorian, something fragile snapped at last. ‘Why, Lord Robart?’ she heard herself ask. ‘I am but sixteen. Shall I be dead before long?’

Breaths were drawn across the table.

‘Highness,’ Lade Edith said, their voice hushed. ‘I beg you, never speak of your own death.’

Glorian lifted her chin.

‘Lady Glorian,’ Lord Robart said, ‘this is your highest duty. It is the best way to keep Inys safe.’

‘Usually, we could wait longer.’ Lady Brangain looked at her, sorrow in her dark eyes. ‘But we face so many threats. The Dreadmount, your parents’ disappearance, the Carmenti, this sickness, the attempt on your life, possibly the Ments. Without an heir, we are vulnerable.’

Glorian tightened her grip on her own hands. She and her grandmother were the only living Berethnets, and her grandmother had been weak and disliked. Lord Robart was right.

She did need an heir, to strengthen the house.

‘Your mother arranged a match before her disappearance,’ Lord Randroth ground out. ‘Your consort will be Prince Therico of the House of Vetalda. He is thirdborn of the Donmato.’

‘Prince Therico is your age,’ Lady Brangain told her, ‘and very kind, according to Queen Rozaria. You met him once in Kárkaro, though I believe His Highness was rather shy of you.’

‘Theo,’ Glorian said. It could have been worse. ‘Yes, I remember. He had a smoky kitten that followed him everywhere.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘Most importantly, he will never be King of Yscalin. That duty will fall to his elder brother,’ Lord Robart said. ‘Prince Therico is free to live at your side. He has already been summoned to Ascalun.’

Glorian tried to restrain the shudder that built in her gut at those words. It burst its thin restraints and went skittering along her arms, raising the fine hairs beneath her sleeves.

They saw her body as another document to sign.

‘You would be wise to set your mind to motherhood now, and to not exert yourself before your marriage,’ Lord Robart said, tidying his papers. ‘The entire Virtues Council is here to guard the queendom for you. Leave everything to us, Lady Glorian.’