A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Halfway across Yscalin, the Saurga Mountains leaned apart, forming the Middle Pass, the fastest way to reach Inys. Red clay peaks climbed from its swathes of holm oaks and sweet chestnuts.

Guarding both the Middle Pass and the mine called the Ufarassus, a castle stood at monstrous height, its walls seeming part of the mountains they stood on. Poised above the largest pit, Hart Grove seemed unbreakable, its turrets all but scraping a sky leaden with smoke.

On its battlements, springalds flung bolts towards the wyrms circling the fortress, the nimble sort with only two feet. These, the Ments had named wyverns, and though others called them wingers or wyrmlings, that was the name that had spread farthest in the West.

Hundreds of miners had fled; more had stayed to fight for the nearest figure of authority. Though Tunuva held no allegiance to Yscalin, she had joined the fray when she and Canthe came on it. She would let nothing live that had been tainted by the Dreadmount.

At last, the wyverns left, their creatures routed, trees blazing in their wake. As Tunuva cleaned the blood from her spear, Canthe emerged from a mining tunnel, caked in grey ash.

‘Here. You’ve earned it,’ she said, holding out a wineskin. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t any help.’

‘It’s all right.’ Tunuva took a long drink. ‘You never claimed to be a warrior.’

‘True.’ Canthe glanced at the castle. ‘The High Prince of Yscalin descends. He’s asked to speak to you.’

‘I want no truck with a prince of Virtudom.’

‘The ports are closed, Tuva. We will need help to get to Inys.’

Tunuva drank again.

The High Prince of Yscalin rode down from his fortress on a warhorse. A sinewy man in his seventies, he had white hair, trimmed short at the back and sides, and the bright latten eyes that ran in his bloodline. For someone on borrowed years, he looked strong.

‘I hear you’re a fine warrior, Southerner,’ he said in perfect Ersyri. ‘What brings you to these mountains?’

‘We hoped to take the Middle Pass.’

‘Where are you bound?’

‘Inys.’

‘Then your road ends here. My sister has closed the ports to stop the spread of this blood sickness.’

‘I see.’

‘I can help you, for a modest price. I have royal prerogative to sail to Inys,’ he said. ‘We’ve been trying to reach the port at Garazna for some time, but the wyverns keep forcing us back to these mountains. Join my escort. If we survive, you shall have a place on my ship.’

‘A kind offer, Your Highness,’ Canthe said. ‘We are happy to accept.’

‘Good. We’ll leave at noon.’

As Prince Guma went to consult his soldiers, Tunuva turned to her friend. ‘I will serve no prince who loves the Deceiver,’ she said under her breath. ‘I am not a mercenary, Canthe.’

‘The Middle Pass is a toll way, which Prince Guma happens to control. It’s by far the swiftest road to Inys,’ Canthe pointed out. ‘Tuva, if we join him, we could be there before midsummer.’

Tunuva conceded with a nod. The faster they reached Inys, the faster she could return to her sisters.

The High Prince was a man of his word. By noon, he had amassed his household, his guard, and his possessions – among them a train of huge, engraved chests – and set out northwest to Garazna. Tunuva rode with Canthe and the knights, eyes on the sky.

The Middle Pass took them through the mountains, to the seared crags and folds of the Vetalda Plain. Salt cedar and basket grass clung to its puddles and dry streambeds. They passed smouldering wheat fields and an almond grove with its trees still afire.

Tunuva could almost smell the coming of the longest day. It did not bode well. Creatures from the Womb of Fire would only stand to gain from heat, while the stout Yscali carthorses were slow and foamed with sweat.

‘Do you speak Ersyri?’ she asked an old soldier, who glanced at her riding coat with suspicion. A copper brooch shone on his, shaped like a sandglass. ‘What is in those chests?’

‘Rare crimson gold of the Ufarassus. Part of the prince’s dowry for the Queen of Inys.’

‘Prince Guma is travelling to marry?’

‘To rule,’ he replied. ‘He’s already married her.’

He rode ahead – uncomfortable, no doubt, in the presence of a shameless heathen. Tunuva glanced at the chests. It seemed impossible that politics should go on in a time like this. News had slowed as the world burned, since messengers no longer rode save for the steepest fees, and few ships were permitted on the waves.

It soon became clear why Prince Guma had been hounded back to his castle time and again. There was little shelter on the Vetalda Plain, and within a few days, the wyverns sniffed them out. The Yscali knights nocked long arrows and drew, but for once, the creatures withheld their fire. Tunuva saw their eyes on her and realised they must sense her magic. She shot a footed arrow at the nearest, and they left with screams that echoed for miles.

Days turned into weeks. Prince Guma drove them hard, but Canthe made a good companion. She bore the heat well, and found reasons to smile, admiring the birds and the small yellow flowers that survived on the plain. Tunuva found she liked her more and more.

No friend could stifle her ache of Esbar. She feared for her, and for their sisters – Siyu, most of all. And never had she been so far from home without her ichneumon.

They passed a farming village that had been razed to char and bones. As the sun set, they reached Garazna, where a cog with plain sails waited, and armed guards came with pots of smoke to fumigate the cargo.

Nearby, hundreds of Yscals had gathered at a barrier. Tunuva only had a little Yscali, but it was enough to understand some of their pleas. ‘My son,’ a man was saying, desperate. ‘My son is in Vazuva. Have mercy!’

‘Prince Guma,’ someone else shouted. ‘Your Highness, let us take our own boats, I beg you!’

‘That is not in my power,’ Prince Guma said, cold and firm. ‘Go home. Tend your farms for as long as you can. Yscalin still needs to eat.’ Ignoring the turmoil, he glanced at Tunuva. ‘It seems you brought us luck, warrior – the wyrmlings smelled death on your spear. What name do you go by?’

‘Tunuva, Your Highness.’

‘For your trouble, Tunuva.’ He tossed her a fat purse. ‘And you’ll join us on the ship.’

‘Thank you, virtuous prince,’ Canthe said with a smile, before Tunuva could object. ‘Your generosity is unrivalled.’

He grunted and rode on. Tunuva offered the purse to Canthe, who tucked it away.

The guards parted to let them through. Tunuva washed her hands in a barrel of red wine and stood to have her clothes smoked before she was permitted to set foot on the ship. Canthe found them a place below deck, where they lay on their cloaks and tried to cool down.

‘What I would not give for a cold bath,’ Canthe sighed. ‘I already miss the Minara.’

Tunuva rested her head on her arm. ‘How long will this voyage take?’

‘As long as it takes.’ Canthe looked at her. ‘Tuva, we can still turn back.’

Tunuva gazed at the ceiling.

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I have carried this weight in my heart for too long. In the Priory, we learn to bear pain, as the Mother did . . . but mine is like a wound that never healed, never became a scar. I will exalt her by seeking the truth. Truth is what sustains the Priory.’

‘She would be proud.’

With a nod, Tunuva closed her eyes. As the ship forged into the Halassa Sea, she tried to still the restlessness inside and sleep.

****

Summer had always had a smell: corn ripening in the fields, wildflowers courting honeybees. This summer stank of wool sticking to sweat, and turning earth, and fear. Where the farmworkers of Arondine might once have been out shearing and reaping, they dug trenches. Where blacksmiths had made nails and horseshoes, they forged swords.

At the coming of wyrms, bells would ring across the city, warning people to make for the old tunnel and flee with all haste to the caves. To avoid confusion, there would be no bells for the Feast of Early Summer. So far, there had been no sound from the wyrms, either.

Wulf visited as often as he could, and yet her blood kept coming.

As Glorian watched him train with Thrit, her thoughts drifted elsewhere. It had been weeks, but she still thought of the light she had found in her dream, and the voice that had called for it.

‘Glorian,’ Florell said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Lady Marian is finally here.’

At once, Glorian looked to the east, where riders flew the banners of the House of Berethnet. ‘I will meet her in the throne room,’ she said, walking after Florell. ‘See her in.’

The Regency Council had voted, by a narrow majority, to make her grandmother Lady Protector of Inys. Though she held the position in law, it had taken a season for Marian to even set out – first because of the heavy spring rains, which had burst the rivers of the Fens, then no sooner had the waters receded than Marian had been stricken with marsh fever.

Bourn arrived before anyone else, looking exhausted. ‘Mastress,’ Glorian said, ‘thank you. Thank you for saving her.’

‘Lady Marian fought hard, Your Grace. I only had a modest supply of a bark that eases fever.’

At last, Marian Berethnet, third of that name, appeared with her small and wayworn household, all of them in grey. She walked with a cane, and Mara Glenn held her free arm.

They took one another in. Their faces were almost the same: Marian was Sabran, as Sabran had been Glorian. All that set them apart was a few wrinkles, her stature, and the grey in her hair, which had almost overrun the black. Glorian was seeing her future self.

‘Your Grace,’ Marian said in a hoarse voice. Mara helped her into a curtsey. ‘I come to serve at your command.’

‘Grandmother, please, don’t trouble yourself.’ Glorian took her by the elbows. ‘You are welcome to Arondine. I trust you are recovered from your sickness?’

‘I still have aches and chills, but your healer saved my life. Mastress Bourn is Saint-touched.’ Marian managed a smile. ‘Let me look at you. Last we met, you were three.’

Glorian smiled back. A pale hand came to her face, and Marian released a soft breath.

‘You are so like Sabran,’ she said. ‘You have her strength, and your father’s, Glorian. I see it.’

‘Come to the keep.’ Glorian took her delicate arm. ‘I’ve had a fine chamber prepared for you, close to mine.’

‘You are kind. Cuthyll was terribly cold. Poor dear Mara, cooped up there with an old woman.’

‘It was a privilege, my lady,’ Mara said.

Glorian shot her a grateful look as they departed. ‘You will not be sent away from court ever again. You are a former queen, and a Berethnet,’ she told her grandmother. ‘I have not forgotten.’

A fire lit the bedchamber, and a pottage of boiled beef was steaming. The Inysh were still working the fields where they could, but the harvest had already failed. It was only a matter of time until no one in Inys – not even a queen – could eat as they desired.

Glorian helped her grandmother into a chair and draped a heavy mantle around her shoulders. ‘Sweet child. Thank you.’ Marian drew it close. ‘All this is more than I deserve, but I vow to earn my place at your court. I find I have grown sterner in my winter years.’

‘Good. We must have iron in our bones.’

Marian chuckled. ‘I remember your father saying that.’ She took a goblet of hot wine from the table. ‘Mara tells me Robart Eller is a heathen. He always seemed kind and diligent – I trusted him to serve your mother. It sickened me to learn of his plan for your marriage.’

‘I chose it. Do not fear for me,’ Glorian said. ‘I have a plan of my own.’

Marian regarded her. ‘You have found someone else to give you an heir.’

‘Do you judge me?’

‘I am in no position to judge. We do what we must to serve the Saint while not destroying ourselves.’ Marian paused. ‘Are you with child?’

For the first time in months, Glorian wanted to break. It had been so long since anyone had mothered her. ‘It’s not working,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve been trying since the winter.’

‘There are some days when the chances are better. Do you trust your lover?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Marian warmed her fingers on the goblet. ‘Regardless of his discretion, he must still be gone before Prince Guma arrives. The risk of someone noticing your closeness is too great.’

‘I know. Mother told me all my life that I had to be perfect, to make up for the queens before us,’ Glorian said. Marian lowered her gaze. ‘Grandmother, was Sabran the Fifth truly so cruel?’

‘Yes, though sometimes I think it was because she was in pain herself. My own mother was not evil, but consumed by bitterness.’ Her face was tight. ‘Sabran – my Sabran – rose above it all. She was sure in herself, even as a child. I did as much as I could to protect her.’

‘You raised a great queen.’

‘Sabran raised herself. But you, Glorian – you, I will help,’ Marian said. ‘Do you mean to rule from Arondine?’

‘Not for long. I will keep my court on the move, to throw the wyrms off our scent. Fýredel seems to have made this a personal matter. Where I go, I suspect it will follow.’

‘The black wyrm,’ Marian murmured. ‘I never thought I would live to see a creature of its like.’

Glorian sat beside her. ‘Only a year ago, all my parents had to fear were the Ments and the Carmenti,’ she said. ‘They seem such petty concerns now.’

‘Such is politics.’ Marian shook her head. ‘A circle with no end. A game with no victors.’

It was comforting, to speak to someone who knew. Glorian laid her head on her shoulder. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Grandmother,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘Let us survive this together.’

Marian only stroked her hair in answer, but Glorian felt a teardrop land like a kiss on the crown of her head.

****

Weak from her illness though she was, Marian was as good as her word. No sooner had she slept a night than she summoned the Regency Council to bring her abreast of their plans.

Glorian was summoned next. As soon as she entered the room, she knew something was wrong.

‘Is it Fýredel?’ she asked her councillors.

‘No, Your Grace,’ Lade Edith said, but still looked grim. ‘The High Prince of Yscalin has arrived in Inys. He rides for Arondine.’

****

The sun died like a candle, leaving a soot of night in its wake. As servants lit the torches in the training yard, Thrit notched an arrow to his bow. Wulf leaned against a pell and watched him try to lengthen the draw.

The city guards had built a crude wyrm out of wood. With his body turned to the left, Thrit took aim at its head. He had mastered all Northern weapons at Fellsgerd, but his archery had suffered in the years since he had broken his collarbone, tearing a muscle in his right shoulder. While his dominant arm healed, Wulf had started teaching him to use the other.

Thrit breathed out. Muscle swelled in his left arm, and he released the arrow. It hit the wyrm dead in the eye, but not with enough force, and they watched it tilt limply and fall to the ground.

‘Well, that’s it.’ Sweat stuck his hair to his brow. ‘I might as well just roast myself, before a real wyrm gets there first.’

‘It’s nerves.’

Thrit cocked an eyebrow at him.

‘You’ve built plenty of strength in that arm,’ Wulf said, ‘but you remember the pain of that hurt you took, and you’re afraid of it happening again. The wound has moved to your mind.’ He stepped towards Thrit. ‘Nock it, go on. Draw.’

Thrit sighed and obeyed. Wulf stood close beside him and cradled his right elbow with a palm.

‘Here.’ He guided it up a little, making Thrit grimace. ‘Does that hurt?’

Thrit considered. ‘No, actually.’

‘Good.’ Wulf moved the same hand to his waist, then to the firm belt of muscle just below his navel. ‘Brace your core.’ Thrit did, with a slight catch of his breath. ‘You’re Hróthi. You’ve iron in your gut and nerves, not just your bones.’ He stepped back. ‘Try again.’

Thrit drew farther this time, face settled into a look of determination. When he let the arrow fly, it whipped across the courtyard, and this time, it stuck in the wyrm.

‘Master Glenn.’ They both turned to see Helisent Beck striding across the grass. ‘Her Grace wishes to speak to you.’

She took him by the sleeve and conducted him back towards the castle, leaving Thrit to set another arrow to his bow.

‘Prince Guma is in Inys,’ she said, by way of explanation. She waited for Julain to clear the coast before they took the stairs to the royal bedchamber, where Glorian waited in her shift, hair rippling to her waist.

‘Helisent told you,’ she said, seeing his face.

‘Aye.’ Wulf locked the door behind him. ‘How long before he comes?’

‘He rides from Ascalun.’

‘You’re still not with child,’ Wulf said quietly.

Her face was careworn. ‘My grandmother told me there are points in my courses when making a child is more or less likely. Today would be a good time to try. After that, you must go back to Hróth.’ She closed her eyes for a long moment. ‘I may have to lie with him after all. Perhaps that was what the Saint always wanted.’

‘Why would he ever want that?’ Wulf asked her. ‘Why would the Saint want any of this?’

‘A test of faith.’

‘Only a cruel man would test you so.’

He joined her at the window, looking out at the city and its glimmer of torches. Glorian leaned into his chest, and as he pressed her close, he felt her shivering.

‘I will miss you,’ she said. ‘Pray for me.’

‘I will.’ He gathered her to his heart. ‘I’ll pray for you all the way to the North.’