A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Arondine meant eagle valley, but the Inysh referred to it as the High City, wrapped as it was around a hill. Tunuva and Canthe joined a line at its gates with cloth over their noses and mouths. They washed their hands in vinegar before they were let past, into its overcrowded streets.

‘Who’s stipulating this nonsense?’ someone grumbled in their wake. ‘Waste of good vinegar.’

‘Aye, my sleeves reek.’

Tunuva kept her hood up. She was still not used to Inysh towns – the noise and smells, the winding streets. In the South, settlements tended to be spread across more ground, allowing the buildings and people to breathe.

Only the castle rose from the crush. It must command a view of the whole valley from its height.

‘Queen Glorian is here, then.’ Canthe looked up at it with interest. ‘I did not expect that.’

Tunuva followed her gaze. A banner flew from its main turret, white against the pall of the sky. Once more the sun looked sickly, its edge as clear as a bare rib. A match for the bruised moon.

‘Clearly her consort had no idea, either,’ she said. ‘Did he not tell us he was bound for Ascalun?’

‘He did.’ Canthe grasped her hand. ‘Come. I don’t want to lose you in this crowd.’

It had been a hard journey from the coast. They had taken a stone causeway through the Marshes, where mist wafted off slick reed swamps, turning the sunlight to milk. Though they had faced no creatures on the trade road, fire had scarred the land. Fields and farmsteads lay in ruin; barns and granaries had burned. Canthe had eventually learned that a flock of wyverns had come in the winter, led by a great wyrm named Fýredel.

Arondine had escaped their trail of destruction. Tunuva followed Canthe along its steep and grimy streets. The castle was one of a very few stone buildings; most were black oak, roofed with straw. Small wonder that foreboding laced the city – one kiss of fire could bring it down.

It still unstrung her to be in the land of the Deceiver. From the sea it had looked bleak, but inland it was soft and green, rich in wildflowers and moss. I always thought it must be a cold and barren place, for the Deceiver to have left it, she had told Canthe.

Cold, yes, but not barren. Galian had a thirst for glory. A modest life on this island would not have been enough for him.

Arondine was a large city by Inysh standards, but not large enough for the sheer number of people it was trying to hold. Thousands had fled to its cobbles, choosing the fortified streets over living off the land. All wore the grey of mourning for their fallen monarchs.

Other than the castle, the most imposing structure was round and built of ivory brick, its roof an ornate dome. It must be stronger than all the rest put together. ‘Hyll Sanctuary,’ Canthe said, seeing her look. ‘This is where the Inysh praise the Saint and the Damsel.’ Tunuva clenched her jaw. ‘I understand it’s hard to bear, Tuva. They don’t know any better.’

‘Yet they happily believe an Inysh knight was the only person who could save Yikala.’

‘Questioning the story is said to imperil their place in Halgant.’

Canthe stopped dead. A young woman in chainmail had emerged from the castle, riding a grey horse.

Engraved silver ringed her brow. Her skin was pale, her hair long and black. She rode up to the sanctuary and spoke to the two well-dressed men on its steps, who seemed to be overseeing an excavation.

‘That can’t be the Queen of Inys.’ Tunuva frowned. ‘She looks younger than Siyu.’

‘I’d say so. That must be her grandmother, Marian,’ Canthe added, when another woman came into sight. ‘Each Berethnet queen looks identical to the last. It’s called the Saint’s Marvel.’

‘How can Guma Vetalda be married to a girl of her age?’

Canthe looked at the queen, her expression clouded.

‘Glorian must need an heir very quickly,’ she said. ‘After all, her people believe that if her bloodline should ever fail, the Nameless One will be unleashed upon the world.’

Tunuva stared at her. ‘That is absurd,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a lie.’

‘Shh, Tuva.’ Canthe drew her into a doorway. ‘You must be careful of your words. Yes, Galian built a legacy upon the lie, and now his descendants grow it in their wombs, one after the next. The Inysh believe his blood is the fetterlock. Did you not know?’

‘We knew of their belief that Galian swung the sword. Not this.’

A lie her birthson must have been raised to believe. Tunuva had never understood why so many realms clung to monarchy, but now she saw how the Deceiver had reinforced it in his land.

By the time they reached the right house, she had swallowed the knowledge, in all its bitterness. Canthe unhooked a key from her girdle. ‘You still have homes across Inys?’ Tunuva asked, counting thirteen keys.

‘Oh, yes. Every good witch needs her lair,’ Canthe said drily, and showed Tunuva through the door.

The room was cramped, with one small window to let in the light. Though the building looked humble from the outside, the rushes on the floor were fresh, mingled with herbs. Tunuva flicked a tongue of flame into the hearth.

‘I’ll find us supper.’ Canthe set down her cloak. ‘And ask in the city about Wulfert Glenn.’

‘Should I come?’

‘No need. You rest, Tuva.’

Canthe went straight back out. Tunuva hung her damp clothes by the fire rolled on to one of the beds. She pulled a blanket over herself and fell into a deep slumber.

She woke with a start when Canthe returned, a basket on her arm. ‘I paid a considerable price for two loaves,’ she said, sinking on to the bed beside Tunuva. ‘Fortunately, wine still flows in Inys.’

Tunuva sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Good. I think I need it.’

Smiling, Canthe poured them a cup each. Tunuva drank hers to the bottom, craving the warmth and softness of it. She had finished two more before she had the courage to ask.

‘Did you hear anything of him?’

Canthe put down her own cup. ‘Queen Sabran and King Bardholt died on their way to a wedding in Vattengard. No one knew how it happened . . . until a lone survivor returned to Ascalun. A young man who somehow endured the icy waters for days before he washed ashore in Hróth, still breathing. He was the one to tell Queen Glorian that Fýredel had burned the fleet.’

‘Wulfert Glenn?’

‘Yes, Tuva.’

The feeling went from her fingers. ‘The siden in his blood.’

‘I thought the same. Even unlit, it might have warmed him just enough to keep him at the brink of death.’

‘It must be him. You were right,’ Tunuva said, swallowing. ‘We have to find him. He could have drowned or frozen in that sea, and I would never have known. He has to hear the truth.’

‘We will, Tuva. I have brought you this far.’

Their eyes met, and held.

Silence rose like unsettled dust. Canthe leaned into it, through it. The hope in her eyes was naked, tormented – a hope faced with its own demise. She still reached for Tunuva and placed a fragile kiss on her lips, and in one terrible moment, disarmed by the sweet joy of hope, Tunuva kissed her back.

The wine hung on her head and slackened everything. Canthe slid both hands up her waist, pressing their brows together, sinking into the embrace. Through a haze, Tunuva looked into her eyes. All she could see was sorrow, depthless as the midnight sky, and now it was in her as well, solitude and desolation. They bore the same pain; they shared the same loss. All they had in this place was each other. Before she knew it, she had drawn Canthe close.

The room seemed to have fallen out of time. Canthe embraced her, the green wool of her gown pleating around her hips. She wore nothing beneath. Tunuva slowly unlaced her, craving the warm comfort of skin and touch. A faint sound of relief escaped Canthe. Her hair tumbled loose, and she freed her shoulders from the gown, so it sank to her waist. Tunuva lay back, and Canthe kissed the notch at the base of her throat.

And yet Tunuva could not slip into the lilt of intimacy. The rosehip lips on hers were numbing. Her own fire burned, but she had been untethered from her senses, and no longer felt it. Canthe framed her face with those cold hands, breathing her name like a last wish.

Don’t leave me again. The memory of a warmer kiss, the right and only one. You steady me, lover.

It woke her from the trance. She broke away. Canthe let go at once, and Tunuva closed her eyes, heart pounding.

‘I can’t, Canthe.’

They sat in the grip of an uneasy silence. ‘Tuva,’ Canthe said, ‘I’m sorry. I should never have—’

‘You are unattached. I am the one who is at fault,’ Tunuva said firmly. ‘Forgive me, my friend. These past weeks have tested my strength. I wish I could offer the comfort you seek.’

Canthe had covered her breasts. Her face was tired and guarded, the light leaving her eyes.

‘Perhaps in another life.’ She sat up, drawing her hair to one side of her neck. ‘There is nothing to forgive. The fault is mine. I have a wont for choosing hearts . . . to which another holds the key.’ Slowly, she stood. ‘Esbar will not hear of this. You have my word.’

She lay down on the other bed. Tunuva looked at her back for some time before she turned over.

Esbar, my love, forgive me.

When she woke again, Canthe was no longer there.

****

Glorian rose from a deep sleep with the certainty that someone was inside her bedchamber.

She sat up, reaching for the sword by her bed. As she found its hilt, the darkness resolved itself into a tall figure, standing by her window, outlined by the faint light from the city.

‘Don’t be afraid.’

The voice was cool and soft. ‘Who is that?’ Glorian was shivering. ‘Sister?’

‘No, child. It is your mother.’

‘Mama.’ Ice sweated from her face. ‘No. You are dead. You are in Halgalant.’

‘I have descended from that hall to bring a message from the Saint,’ the voice said. ‘I know you long to hear his voice, and you must know he loves you, child. He sees you.’

‘In spite of my vice?’

‘He forgives his queens, through the merciful Damsel.’ Slow footsteps. ‘You cannot defeat this enemy, Glorian. But I vow to you, this age of fire and smoke will end. A star will come at morning on the first day of spring. It will be a day of fallen night, when the heavens will part for a rain from on high. The wyrms will sink into a sleep, and storms will quench the embers.’

‘When will they wake again?’

‘That is not for you to fear.’

The figure was close now. Her skin broke into goosebumps as a hand came to caress her cheek.

‘I miss you,’ Glorian whispered, tears spilling over. ‘I miss Papa.’

‘We have found our seats at the Great Table. There is no pain in the hall of the dead.’ Fingertips came under her chin. ‘You called for a sister. Who is that you see at night?’

‘She has no face, but she is a voice in my head. I used to hear her often; now I hear her less.’

‘This voice, does it offer you counsel?’

‘Yes. I was sixteen when I first heard it.’ Glorian could barely hear herself. ‘I have thought all manner of things, but . . . now I wonder if she was you, Mother. If she is the voice of all our ancestors. Did I summon you to me tonight by sending the light she asked for?’

‘She is not you, nor me. She is a secret you must take to your tomb – a truth that can never be spoken.’

‘I will not speak of her, not as long as I live. I know I must not,’ Glorian whispered, ‘but Mother, please don’t take her from me. I never feel more alone than when she is silent.’

There was silence now, for a long time. ‘Then I will seek her out for you,’ the voice said. ‘Only open the doors of your dream to me, daughter.’

Glorian had no idea how to obey, but she nodded. The ghostly hand came to the side of her head, giving her hair a tender stroke, and next she knew, it was morning. She sat up to an empty room, entangled in the sheets, and cold.

****

She broke her fast with Marian. Everything tasted sour of late, but she ate every scrap of bread and every crumb of cheese, not wanting to waste a morsel. ‘We are swiftly running out of flour,’ her grandmother murmured. ‘I understand there will be little food from now on.’

‘What should we do?’

‘We can make sure what we have is shared equally. You can pass a law to restrict the raising of prices, but we cannot make grain ripen in darkness.’ Marian sighed. ‘It gives me no pleasure to speak of all we cannot do, after my reign, but I do not see how Inys will survive if Fýredel returns.’

‘It will.’ Glorian waited for her stomach to settle. ‘Grandmother, did the Saint ever speak to you?’

‘No.’ Marian smiled, a little wryly. ‘I was too quiet for him to notice me.’

‘I had a dream last night. An apparition. Mother told me all of this would finish in the spring.’

Marian set down her knife. ‘Sabran,’ she said. ‘She came to you from Halgalant?’

Glorian nodded. ‘She told me the wyrms would fall into a sleep.’

‘That gives me great heart. I only wish I knew how to explain this to the Regency Council.’

‘You must not try. Mother told me I should keep my dreaming to myself.’ Glorian looked at her. ‘Will you find out if we can last until spring?’

‘I will.’

Just then, Florell knocked on the door to the Little Hall. ‘Your Grace, Lady Protector, forgive me.’ Her face was pinched. ‘Prince Guma has passed Bothenley. He will be here by dusk.’

Glorian found her mouth was too dry to answer. ‘Of course, Florell,’ her grandmother said. ‘I will assemble the Regency Council to welcome His Highness.’ Once Florell was gone, Marian lowered her voice: ‘Glorian, have you had your blood since your lover last visited?’

‘No. It would usually come in a day or two.’ Glorian wrung her fingers. ‘I have sent him away.’

‘Good. If your efforts were in vain, we will find someone else.’ Marian leaned across the table, her gaze sharpening. ‘Prince Guma does not know that we have discovered his plot with Lord Robart. What do you wish to do, Glorian?’

Somewhere above the castle, a white-tailed eagle called.

‘Mother told me that a queen should know the right moment to strike, and when she need not strike at all,’ Glorian said. ‘I believe we should let things play out with Prince Guma, and allow him to think we are ignorant. For now.’

‘That guidance may have come from Sabran,’ Marian said, eyes twinkling, ‘but the head of a tactician sits upon your shoulders, Glorian Óthling. In this, you are your father.’

Glorian allowed herself a smile.

She busied herself for the rest of the day, riding to see the tunnel and catapults. She visited the blacksmiths at the forges, the bowyers and fletchers working in the lists. Fighters had come from all over the province, pitching camp at the walls when they found little room inside. Most had no weapons; instead, they held the tools they had once used to work the fields. Glorian supposed a well-aimed pitchfork could be as lethal as a sword.

The Yscali soldiers would be a great help. From what she knew, Prince Guma had a scrupulously trained army, to deter raiders and bandits. Soon a portion of it would be at her command.

‘There is the matter of tax,’ Leodyn Eller said as they inspected the ditches. She was the new Duchess of Generosity, second cousin to the heathen. ‘It seems unlikely most will be able to pay.’

‘My companion brings a substantial dowry,’ Glorian said. ‘Let him pay for those who can’t.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

All the talk of tax and weapons in the world could not stop the inevitable. At sunset, her consort forded the River Tyrnan on a destrier. Glorian watched him from the castle walls.

She met him in chainmail. Men who reached their seventies were often stooped and frail, but Guma Vetalda had been reared on mountain air and the alible food of Yscalin. Glorian stood an inch past six feet, yet he was taller, stout in the chest, with receded white hair, combed back from his brow, matching a short neat beard. Like most members of the Vetalda family, he had tawny eyes, a shock against his deep suntan, and his mouth was stern, with a scar below a thin sliver of bottom lip.

Look past all the features a person cannot help, Queen Sabran had told Glorian once. Look at what they choose to put upon themselves.

His finery was marked, but understated. Each fastening of his leather coat was shaped like the Vetalda pear, and his patron brooch – a shield – was cast in the same red gold. It sat discreetly on his lapel.

‘Your Grace.’ His voice was gruff, with an Yscali roll. ‘I am Guma Vetalda, High Prince of Yscalin.’ He eyed the castle. ‘And now, prince of this land as well.’

‘I am glad you found us, Your Highness,’ Glorian said. ‘I apologise for our absence from Ascalun. These are chaotic times – I fear a messenger may not have reached you.’

‘Evidently.’

She sensed the Regency Council shifting, even those who had pushed for this match. Now they were faced with the royal couple, no one could deny the horrific absurdity of it.

‘You are welcome to Arondine Castle,’ Glorian said. ‘My court will be here until the wyrms find us. Our food stores are dwindling, but we will give you what we can, after your journey.’

‘We bring food of our own. Since grain now holds more immediate value than gold, half of my dowry comes in that form – I have lands the wyrms have not yet found. Our people will not go hungry, Your Grace.’

‘You are most generous.’ Glorian offered a smile. ‘Please, rest and refresh yourselves – I have some eventide duties in the city. Sir Granham Dale will see your retinue settled.’

‘Where is the Lord Protector?’ He searched the faces behind her. ‘I expected Lord Robart.’

‘Sadly, Lord Robart is unwell. We fear he has the blazing plague,’ Glorian said. ‘While he is confined to his castle, my grandmother, Lady Marian Berethnet, acts as my regent.’

He was too well-trained to betray himself. ‘I wish Lord Robart a swift return to health, though I fear he will not recover. There seems to be no cure.’ After a pause, he said, ‘The journey was long – I will speak to your castellan, to find my own chamber tonight. Goodnight, Your Grace.’

Glorian watched him leave. Whenever he was ready, she was.