A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Last he had sailed towards Inys, the Hammer of the North had still ruled Hróth. Regny had been by his side, Eydag had drunk heather beer, and laughter had rung on the deck of the Longstride. Now, he could not shake that evil smell from the white ship, the taste of death under his tongue.

On the third day, a body drifted past the Wave Steed. Swollen and charred, it floated with its arms fanned out, reeking of rotten smoke. Sauma and Thrit watched in silence until the fog enveloped it. The captain – a mardy old raider – had the sign of the sword chalked on to the mast.

There was little talk during the voyage. Sometimes Wulf caught Sauma watching him and wondered what she was thinking. You should be dead, Karlsten whispered from his mind. He drank enough ale to muffle the voice, staying close to the mast and away from the waves.

On the sixth evening, he lay beneath the rain shelter that tented the middle of the ship. He was aware of every movement: the creak of rope and sail, the waves licking the sides.

Deep in the night, Thrit came into the shelter and nested in the pelts beside him. Wulf said, ‘Did you find them, Thrit?’

Thrit looked at him, dark eyes reflecting the lantern.

‘Your family.’ Wulf could still not speak without pain. He had swallowed so much smoke and salt. ‘Bardholt asked you to get them to Eldyng. Did you?’

‘Aye. They’re safe from the plague, for now.’

‘It came from beneath. From the wyrms.’ Wulf coughed from his chest. ‘Just as the Saint told it.’

‘The Curse of Yikala.’ Thrit looked grim. ‘The Saint defeated the Nameless One, but he had an enchanted sword. If magic ever existed, it’s gone. It’s been gone for centuries.’

‘In the East, too?’

‘I think so. The dragons – the gods – were supposed to have magic. A divine force that allowed them to turn into animals, or even humans, and gave them power over water.’

‘What do they look like, these dragons?’

‘Giant snakes with the scales of fish. They flew without wings, swimming like whales.’ He took something from under his shirt. ‘My grandfather gave me this when I saw him, to protect me.’

He passed Wulf the amulet, which was carved of pale stone. It showed a sinuous creature with a mane, coiled like a snake, four toes on each foot.

‘Looks like a knucker. A wyrm of the water,’ Wulf murmured. ‘Always thought those were just a story.’ He handed it back. ‘You can’t let anyone see you with that, Thrit.’

‘You’re not just anyone.’ Thrit returned it to his neck. ‘My grandparents aren’t believers, really. They say the gods slept through war and drought, and they owe them no devotion.’

‘They converted to the Six Virtues?’

‘Of course. Bardholt demanded it. In truth, though, I think they believe only in what they see.’ Thrit rested his head on a folded arm. ‘I sent them to Skelsturm. I thought they’d be safer on an island when the plague moves south, which I suspect it will.’

Wulf looked up, to the canvas above. That canvas kept him safe, kept him concealed.

‘I won’t ask if you’re all right,’ Thrit said. ‘I’ll ask if there’s anything I can do.’

‘No.’ Wulf swallowed, eyes watering from the pain. ‘Karl is right. All of them died close to me.’

‘Well, I’m not dead, as far as I can tell, and neither is Sauma. Neither is Karl, unfortunately – though I suspect he’d love to die in some revel of witching, just to prove his point.’ Thrit paused. ‘You don’t have to ask, Wulf. I’ll never fear you. Regny didn’t. I don’t.’

He reached into the space between them. Wulf breathed in the smell of his palm: tar and wood, the sweet oil he combed through his hair, the ring on his thumb. That thumb stroked Wulf from cheekbone to jaw.

‘Get some sleep,’ Thrit said. ‘Saint knows what we’ll face in Inys.’

Wulf resisted the urge to grasp his hand. He nodded and huddled into the pelt, knowing there would be no bees in his dreams. There had been no dreams at all since the wyrm came.

He woke to a roar in his ears, the sweep of icy air across the ship. Choking on fear, he drew his sax, waiting for fire to blind and devour him. His heart was a heavy fist on his breastbone.

Slowly, he felt the wind, the rain. The cover had been taken off. Over the twine of the sail and the creaking, he could just hear Sauma shouting to the captain. The fog had cleared enough for moonlight to cut through, and there, in the middle distance, were cliffs, skelped by the black and monstrous waves.

Inys.

‘Wulf,’ Sauma called as he got up, ‘this will be a bad storm. We’ll have to make land where we can.’

‘Where are we?’ he tried to say. She leaned close to hear. ‘Where is this?’

‘Not sure.’ Her curls were painted to her forehead. ‘We can take shelter, sail again when it passes.’

In another life, Wulf would have relished the ride to the coast. He would have savoured the spray on his face and the salt on his lips, laughed at the prospect of thunder. Now all he could do was hunker beside the mast, hoping on hope he could keep his last meal down.

By the time they were close enough to smell land, the wind howled and the Ashen Sea battered the ship. Sauma and Thrit sculled with the merchants while the captain worked the rudder and Wulf sat feckless in the hull, staring into the distance, his bandaged and mittened hands in his lap. Though his soles had healed enough for him to walk without the crutch, the others had refused to let him oar while his fingers were healing.

Soon they were lowping into the shallows to haul the ship ashore. Wulf disembarked and promptly vomited on to the sand. He wiped his mouth with a shaking wrist, sweat dripping from his hair.

‘Look,’ Thrit shouted over the wind. He pointed up the beach. ‘Is that a cave?’

Wulf squinted through the rain, to where the cliff opened its mouth. ‘Aye,’ one of the leather traders agreed. ‘It is.’

They slept around a fire inside, spreading their wet clothes and provisions on rocks. By morning, the storm had blown elsewhere, leaving tired daylight and a shimmer in its wake.

Sauma found Wulf on the beach, fastening his boots. ‘We’re ready to sail again,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll get myself to Ascalun.’ Wulf glanced at her. ‘Sauma, I can’t be on that sea again.’

She looked southward, down the long stretch of wet sand and shingle. ‘I don’t envy you, but if you insist,’ she said, breathing out damp fog. ‘Thrit can keep you company. I’ll go with the traders and find somewhere to stay in the capital. Meet me there.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Regny would tell you to find your iron.’ A sigh left her nose. ‘I am not Regny.’

She trudged back towards the ship. Thrit emerged from the cave, his wicker pack slung over his shoulder.

The beach was a slick, fettled by rain and the tide. As light blanched the ominous clouds, Wulf watched the Wave Steed fight back on to the choppy waters. He and Thrit followed in its wake, moving south at a slow clip. Though he loved the snow, Thrit had never enjoyed the dank chill of Inys, and wore an expression of pained resolve, face scrunched up against the mizzle.

They walked without speaking, too weary to muster a word. When Wulf next looked up, the fog was at the coast again. Through it, he made out a dark hump in the water.

‘I know where we are,’ he called. ‘This is the Fens.’

‘How do you know?’

‘That wee skerry. Yelden Head.’ Wulf paused to cough. ‘Marks the boundary between the Leas and the Fens. You can only reach it when the tide’s out. My aunt mentioned it once.’

‘Does she live nearby, this aunt?’

‘A few miles off. Someone should be able to point us to her manor.’

‘If we find anyone.’ Thrit puffed out a grey smudge. ‘She’ll help us reach Ascalun?’

‘Aye, I think so.’

‘Good. I need a hot bath and some bland Inysh broth.’ Thrit raked his wet hair from his face. ‘Lead the way.’

They forged on, battered by the wind. Something made Wulf want to cleave to the sea, even if he had no wish to sail on it. They stopped to collect fresh water before continuing, watched by the black gulls that picked at the crabs and beached fish on the coast.

Wulf had met Baroness Shore several times, when she visited Langarth. From what he remembered, she was loud, rich, and had always treated him with kindness. She was a southerner, raised in the Fens, beyond the shadow of the haithwood – it would have been ghost lights and swamp hounds that had terrified her as a child, not a witch in the wood.

Their boots left deep wells in the sand. Wulf walked with his head stooped against the wind and his fists across his chest. Hours passed before Thrit touched his shoulder, and he looked up to see a Hróthi longship on the beach, listed to one side. The wind lashed at its tattered sail, which was split crossways into four, two panes of white and two of crimson.

Wulf knew that sail. Everyone did. Clan Vatten were virtuous now, but anyone with any sense still feared the blood and bone.

‘Not like the sea wolves to run a ship aground,’ Thrit said. Beneath his lambskin hood, his nose was pink. ‘Caught in the storm?’

‘Aye.’

Barrels jostled in the shallows. Wulf eyed the footprints that pocked the beach, weaving back and forth until they vanished beyond the cliffs. ‘A drunken stride,’ Thrit observed. ‘Fools must not have seen the shore while they were in their cups.’

Wulf had a different notion. The callused skin of his palms itched. He climbed a tangle of salted netting, trying not to use his frostnipped hands, and pulled himself up the flank of the ship, grimacing at the ache in his arms, the broad soreness between his shoulders.

When he had an elbow over the gunwale, his blood stopped.

The longship had been carrying wool, which was still there, bundled in packs. Now it also held corpses – red to the elbow, tongues swollen and eyes rolled back, arms riven by deep and dirty gashes, blood under their broken nails. Even in death, their faces were contorted in agony.

‘Thrit,’ Wulf croaked, ‘stay away.’

‘What is it?’ Thrit gripped the haft of his axe. ‘Wulf, what’s there?’

Wulf looked down at Thrit, watching his brow turn overcast.

‘Saint,’ Thrit whispered. ‘It’s here.’

****

Glorian stood at the window of her bedchamber in the Queens’ Tower. The smell was in her hair, her bedding, everything she touched, and for all the heat, she could not stop trembling. She watched the dark reveal the flares of flame across the city.

Sir Bramel had got her away. She had woken in bed, coughing so hard she feared her ribs might break, Doctor Forthard at her side. She had coughed while the blaze mantled the river on both sides, watched fire leap between buildings and strike the Sanctuary of the Sacred Damsel. Twelve women had run inside to save her remains, only for the heat to drive them back. One had caught molten lead from the roof in her eye.

Queen Cleolind was safe. She was entombed in stone, and dead.

On the second day, Glorian had drifted into a feverish sleep, waking to a surge of screams as Rosarian’s Bridge buckled, taking fifty people with it. In Hayharbour, a throng of boats had overturned as hundreds tried to board them, drowning many, for the River Limber ran swift and cold, especially at this time of year.

On the third day, the fire had reached the shipyards on the south bank, and then the ward of Mistlegate.

On the fourth day, Helisent made it to the castle. She had searched in vain for the mislaid skull, only to be swept up in the stampede across the city, unable to reach Queenside. Trapped by the fire, the smoke, and the crush in the streets – frightened people, abandoned carts, livestock running wild – she had finally reached the Limber. With the fire at her back, she had risked swimming between wards, clinging to the mooring rings, and had since been with Kell Bourn, pained by bloody feet, a chill, and a ferocious cough.

The skull was lost. All that remained of Bardholt Hraustr was the thighbone Glorian had been clutching – but Helisent was alive, and so were Adela and Julain. That was all that mattered.

By the sixth day, the blaze had spread farther, forcing many north across the Bridge of Supplications. It must have felt safe until a strong wind blew a sparkling cloud of embers across the river, illuminated garnets that ignited everything they touched.

After that, she lost count of day and night. The fire was a midnight sun, and this was the Womb of Fire. Florell tried to keep her abreast, though Glorian could chart the blaze from the play of light, the cries, the reek. You were supposed to be their protection, she reminded herself when she passed her window. You were supposed to be their shield.

The haze over the city – sallow by day, ruddy by night – had seeped into the castle. The fire in her own hearth seemed a profanity, and at last, she bid a servant bank it, afraid to do it herself. The boy fumbled as he worked, and when he looked at Glorian, she could not understand his expression. Once he was gone, she bolted the door.

His family must be out there, while she was in a stone fortress. Ascalun Castle stood far enough from the other buildings that even its gardens would likely be safe. Beyond its high walls, there was wood and wattle, thatch and hay and wool, a city made of tinder.

The Saint had never promised that nothing else would come. Only that the Nameless One would not return. The people of Inys had never prepared, because they thought their queens would shield them.

Mother, Father, please, I beseech you, help me. Saint, help me. Damsel, help me. I will give you anything. Glorian clasped her hands. My sister, you were right. Send me a message—

A knock startled her from prayer. ‘Your Grace?’

Glorian groped for the latch, letting Florell in. ‘What is happening?’ she said, clutching her. ‘Florell, tell me.’

‘Ten wards are on fire, more threatened by the hour,’ Florell said, eyes bloodshot. Glorian let go and turned away, a fist clenched to her heart. ‘The droughts have left the thatch very dry. The blaze will keep spreading. No doubt the violence will spread with it. The people are turning on each other, blaming friend and enemy alike for the wyrms’ coming.’

‘What is to be done?’

‘Lady Gladwin believes the buildings closest to the fire should be pulled down to break its path. Lord Robart has agreed to her proposal, and will compensate the owners from his own coffers. They are riding to overtake the southern edge of the fire now.’

‘You told me to assert myself,’ Glorian said. ‘Instead, Lord Robart will be the one to end the violence my bold words began. I should be riding at his side.’

‘Glorian, no. You are the heir.’ Florell gripped her shoulders. ‘You did all you could. You defied this Fýredel, just as your father would have. Lord Robart is right – you must stay safe and hidden.’

‘I could be no more hidden if he shut me in a wooden box and dropped me into the sea.’

‘It is far too dangerous for you to step into that fire. We must put our trust in the Saint.’

‘Why has he not stopped this?’ Glorian said, her voice breaking. ‘Why has he done nothing?’

‘Only you can know that. You are his successor.’

‘If you were his successor, what would you think?’

Florell looked out at the city. ‘A test,’ she said. ‘I would think it was a test of faith.’

‘Perhaps it is a warning.’ Glorian pulled away and paced her bedchamber. ‘We shamed him in the Century of Discontent. Perhaps even Mother was not enough to save us from his wrath.’

‘Your mother was good enough to make up for all three of her predecessors and more. She was the great queen of your bloodline,’ Florell said fiercely. ‘His heir, his embodiment. You have her heart and spine, Glorian. I saw that when you stood and faced the wyrm.’

‘I taunted him, and he answered.’

‘If you had bowed, you would have spat at your ancestor. He did not kneel before the Nameless One.’

Glorian had wondered. She could have pleaded for her people to be spared; she could have asked the beast for mercy.

‘Prince Therico,’ she said. ‘Is he on his way to Inys?’

‘He was. But now, the danger—’

‘Get him here. Florell, I cannot go out there for one reason, and one only. It is because I do not have a child. If I did, you would all let me ride in the city.’

‘Glorian—’

‘You will tell the Lord Protector to get Prince Therico here, by hook or by crook. Let it be done.’

Florell closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I will express your wishes to Lord Robart,’ she said. ‘Your Grace.’

Once she had gone, Glorian sank to the floor beside her cold hearth, clutching a bolster from her bed. She was a small child again, needing warmth and heaviness for comfort.

I will wed. I will do all you command. I will marry Prince Therico or whoever else is put before me. I will bear the fruit, I will be the unending vine, and then I will fight to the bitter end. Glorian pressed her eyes shut, reaching for that inbetween, where a stream flowed like tears. Let it end. Please, let it end. Saint, messenger, sister, help me. Send me rain.

****

It must have been hours later that she woke on the floor, her cheek pressed to the flagstone, to a rumble that made her fear the walls had crumbled. She reached her window just in time to see a flash of lightning as the sky opened like a hand from the heavens.

Then it came: the unmistakable, merciful smell of rain.

I hear.