A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Two monumental statues guarded the southern gate of the Valley of the Joyful Few. Suttu the Dreamer, with the spear she dipped in starlight – Mulsub, the spear Esbar now possessed – and the other, Jeda the Merciful, a beloved queen of the former Taano State.

From the valley, it took three more days of riding before they reached the ridge that marked the end of Lasia. Now and then, they passed the ruin of a bone tower or pillar. Hunks of basalt littered the dunes for a time.

Mages held more warmth than most, and in such dry and stagnant heat, even small movements were draining. They rested in what little shade could be found at midday, only riding when dusk fell. At length, they reached the Erian Pass, the quickest way to Carmentum. Hundreds of dwellings were carved into its inner walls, caves stacked around and over each other, joined by rope bridges that climbed up as far as Tunuva could see.

The passage opened on to a dusty cliff on the other side of the ridge, where thick-bodied milk trees stood with branches fanned out to embrace the sky. In the far distance, through the rippling haze across the land, Tunuva could just about see a city.

‘Nin,’ she said, ‘can you still smell them?’

Ninuru waited for a flurry of wind. ‘Lalhar.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘She was here.’

Tunuva nodded. Her instinct had been right.

The sun was a gold platter. As it started its long descent, Canthe directed them towards the Halassa Sea. It sparkled to the west, unbroken all the way to the horizon. No one had ever crossed it and returned.

They found an opening in rock, where two faceless statues showed the way to a cracked set of steps, leading to an underground cavern. Daylight shone through a wide break above and danced in a clear pool of water, a rare desert spring. Ninuru bent her head to drink.

‘Ninuru should be safe here,’ Canthe said. ‘There are ghost adders to eat.’ Ninuru licked her chops. ‘Tuva, you will need to leave your sword. The Carmenti do not carry weapons.’ Tunuva took it off. ‘Given its design, you could risk the spear, but keep it out of sight.’

‘Very well.’

Canthe knelt beside the water and splashed the dust from her neck, while Tunuva stroked her ichneumon. ‘Ninuru,’ she said, ‘I need you to stay here until I come back for you.’

Ninuru stopped lapping the water and gazed at her. ‘Ichneumons do not leave little sisters.’

‘You can’t come with us into the city, honeysweet.’

‘They have no weapons.’

‘Some of them will, even if it’s in secret.’ Tunuva held her face. ‘We won’t be apart for long, I promise. Do you trust me?’ Ninuru blew through her nose. Tunuva placed a kiss on it. ‘Good. Get some rest, and I’ll be back in no time with Siyu and Lukiri.’

****

Now they were on foot, Canthe piled up her long hair, so her nape was bare to the sun. She seemed not to sweat, which confounded Tunuva. Even in winter, this region was hot as a kiln.

They walked through groves of olive and desert apricot, towards the high city wall. ‘Do you know the story of Carmentum?’ Canthe asked, stopping at a well.

‘I do.’

Canthe worked the crank while Tunuva took out her gourds. Never had she been so parched.

‘Yikala was not the same after the Nameless One. Many had lost their loved ones,’ she said. ‘After the Onjenyu compensated those families for their losses, a large group of Yikalese left. They went as far south as they could and started building a new settlement.’

The bucket sank into water, and Canthe began to pull it back up. She was stronger than she looked.

‘An ancient ruin gave them a foundation,’ Tunuva said. ‘Years later, the survivors of Gulthaga heard of the city and joined the Yikalese, to help them build Carmentum. Soon many others had flocked there. The Onjenyu eventually gave the city independence from Lasia.’

‘And here it stands,’ Canthe said, reaching for the bucket. ‘A city at the edge of the world, flourishing as port and haven and young republic. The first on this side of the Abyss.’

‘Are there any republics in the East?’

‘Perhaps beyond the great mountains, in regions we have yet to map.’

Tunuva shook her head. ‘It never fails to surprise me that so few see the folly and insult of monarchy.’

‘Tradition is steady, and change is a risk. The Carmenti were brave, to choose the latter.’

They both filled their gourds with clean water before continuing. Tunuva drank long and deep.

‘I’m surprised you’ve never come this far south, Tuva,’ Canthe remarked. ‘Were you not curious about the only republic in the known world – a place with no crowns, like the Priory?’

‘I heard enough of it to sate my curiosity. It’s a hard journey to make without reason.’

‘Now you have all the reason in the world.’ Canthe stopped to pick two apricots. ‘We do great and terrible things for our daughters.’

Tunuva took the fruit she offered.

By the time they drew close to the city, the sun hung low, a pomegranate on the branch of the sky.

Carmentum hooked around an isolated outcrop, the Lonely Hill, which rose from the desert like the shoulder of some buried god, windcatchers spearing up around it. Canthe paid a small toll to enter on foot, and then they were surrounded by people. Most of the dwellings were whitewashed, partly dug into the ground, with a shade tree.

Beneath a salt oak, a crier read out news (‘Good electorate, the Master of Beasts reminds you to join him for a show like no other, three silvers a seat, tomorrow at noon’), watched by a crowd of Carmenti. Tunuva searched the nearest faces, hoping against hope for Siyu.

‘We should find an inn,’ Canthe said.

Reluctantly, Tunuva nodded. Siyu would run no farther, and the search could take days.

They reached a paved street at least half a mile wide, cast into shadow by sandstone arches, which swept over it like giants’ ribs. People there were parting for a woman in a purple cloak. Her tight curls were bound up beneath a circlet, dripping pearls across a lined brown forehead.

‘That must be the Decreer,’ Tunuva said.

‘Yes – Numun, on her tour. Each day, she visits a district to see the people and hear their concerns.’

Beside her walked a redhead in cream silks, the neckline arrowing to her waist, soft and shapely where Numun was formed like a knife. Freckles dusted her pale face and shoulders.

‘Ebanth Lievelyn,’ Canthe said with a smile. ‘An interesting woman. She was a courtesan in the Mentish capital until the Vatten outlawed her profession, in keeping with the Six Virtues. I’m sure you know that Numun also has another consort, Mezdat Taumāgam.’

‘Yes, that caused quite a stir in the Priory. Mezdat infuriated Queen Daraniya by renouncing her titles to become a republican. She still has a protector, but the sister here must be discreet.’

‘Should we pay her a visit?’

‘I had better not interfere with her work.’

Tunuva watched the two women pass. No one bowed, but the people made gestures of respect.

Canthe led her onward, to a row of carriages. While she arranged payment, Tunuva climbed inside and let her eyelids sink.

Carmentum went on and on. By the time the carriage reached the southern face of the hill, it was dusk, and the dry chill of a desert night had already set in. At the foot of the rock, Tunuva followed Canthe to a narrow set of steps, tiredness like an anchor on her. Once they had reached the inn, she was ready to sleep for as long as the Nameless One.

Inside, it was cool and candlelit, silk curtains swaying in the gentle breeze. Canthe spoke in lilting Lasian to the innkeeper, who guided her towards yet more steps.

The room he unlocked was like a cave, with two beds and a hearth. Tunuva went to its small balcony. Carmentum spilled out before her, disappearing back around the Lonely Hill. Nothing could be seen beyond the city wall, so thick was the moonless dark.

‘I’ll fetch us some food,’ Canthe said. ‘There should be oil and water for bathing.’

‘Thank you.’

Far below, lamps glinted and music soared, shot with chimes of laughter. Tunuva drank it all in, senses pricked. Lalhar would be the key to her search. No one would remember one young woman and a baby, but they would notice an ichneumon.

She had to find them all quickly.

The cold made her shiver. She withdrew and fastened the door before shucking her clothes. Beside a drain shaped like olive leaves, she found linen, water, and a jar of oil, and knelt to cleanse her skin.

She was still patting herself dry when Canthe returned, carrying a platter and a jug.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, turning away. ‘I should have knocked.’

Tunuva raised a smile. ‘No need. I’m too old to be shy of my body.’

Canthe smiled back, putting the meal down.

‘I wish mine were as strong,’ she said. ‘I have forged weapons, but I cannot wield them.’

‘You can work a forge?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘We could use that skill. And even if you never master a sword, you could make a fine archer.’

‘I’d like that. I always thought archers so graceful.’

As Tunuva reached for the jug, she glanced up, just as Canthe took off the last of her clothes. She was slim and soft all over.

Tunuva poured the wine. For the first time in years, she wondered what a stranger had thought of her body. Though it had changed over the decades, it was as sturdy as ever, sinewed by a lifetime of training, even if it sometimes craved more rest than it once had. She studied her callused hands, the dark freckles that fanned across her neckline.

She had never fully lost the thickness in her belly. It was her last reminder that her body had once held another.

Canthe drew on a robe. As she turned, Tunuva glimpsed a welter of faint scars below her navel, certainly made by a blade. They were the only marks on her. She belted the silk over them and joined Tunuva at the table, wet hair combed to one side of her neck.

‘We should set out at sunrise to search. Most people here sleep at noon,’ she said, reaching for a cup of wine. ‘Does Siyu have any talents she might use to earn coin?’

Tunuva considered asking her about the scars, then decided against it.

‘Hunting, of course. She plays the flute,’ she said, ‘but perhaps not well enough to make a living from it. Her mind wanders too quickly to pursue a single interest.’

‘Can she use a spear?’

‘Very well. I taught her.’

‘Good. We can search for her in the harbour. They always need spearfishers.’ Canthe reached for one of the forks on the table. ‘First, though, let us eat our fill.’

The food was rich with flavour. Flatbread dipped in olive oil, white beans stewed with chopped almonds and fiery salt-cured sausage, cheese and dates, served with a dry red wine.

‘The key you wear,’ Canthe said, taking a sip from her goblet. ‘What does it open?’

Tunuva touched it. The floral key rested between the hollow of her throat and her breastbone. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Saghul entrusted it to me, as tomb keeper.’

‘But never revealed its purpose?’

‘No. She would have told Esbar.’ Tunuva tore off a piece of bread. ‘May I ask the significance of your ring?’

Canthe looked at it, then worked it from her finger and placed it on the table between them. ‘I was married once.’ She sat back, crossing one pale leg over the other. ‘A long time ago.’

Tunuva picked it up. A joint ring, made of two open circles, locked together at the bezel. The two hands – one on the end of each circle – were clasped as if in friendship. Their fingers held the ring together, and lines had been etched across the inner band.

‘Morgish. A spell for eternal love,’ Canthe said. ‘Something I believed in then.’

‘Fine artistry.’ Tunuva handed it back. ‘Who did you marry?’

‘Someone who has been dead for a long time.’ Canthe returned the ring to her finger with a tiny smile. ‘When I first saw you with Esbar, I envied you – the ease of your intimacy, your laughter. No one has held me close in years. I fear I am too cold to touch.’

‘You will find warmth and comfort with us.’ Tunuva paused. ‘Canthe, earlier, you mentioned that . . . we do great and terrible things for our daughters.’

Canthe turned the ring.

‘Yes.’ She moved a hand over her middle. ‘I still think – sometimes, when the solitude lies heaviest – that I feel my newborn girl in my arms. I wake with such a strong belief that when I realise her absence, I mourn all over again.’

Tunuva could only manage a stiff nod. There were too many words in her throat, thick with dust – things she had longed to say in the past, swallowed halfway down and trapped.

‘I wish I could tell you the pain leaves. The loss of a child is not such a rare thing,’ Canthe said, ‘but it is the most unnatural.’ She put the goblet down. ‘I see the strength of your love for Siyu. Perhaps that was why I came after you. You deserve an easier life, Tunuva – you, who have remained so kind, despite the cruel hand you were dealt.’

Tunuva reached across the table, covering her hand. Canthe turned quite still.

‘Canthe,’ Tunuva said, ‘your pain is not my pain, but I know its shape. I am sorry for it.’

Their fingers interwound.

‘I am so sorry for yours.’ Canthe forced a smile. ‘Please, Tunuva, sleep. You look tired.’

She went to the balcony. Tunuva drained her own cup of wine, then lay down on the bed, her thoughts soaked in him for the first time in months.

Outside, in the dark, the sea washed the Carmenti shore.