A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

With Ninuru, the ride to Lasia was swift. Wulf sat behind Tunuva, his arms around her waist, while the ichneumon cleaved to the Spindles for as long as she could, so they had cover when a wyrm passed. There were fewer in the Ersyr now – they must have moved on. In their wake, they had left bodies rotting in the sun, settlements in ruin, and naked wanderers, their arms red.

Wulf shot each one down, stopping their screams. He had a good eye.

When they reached the Lasian Basin, Ninuru stopped, and Tunuva slid off to collect water from a broad pink leaf. When she returned, she found Wulf gazing up at the trees.

‘You remember,’ she said, summoning her Inysh.

Wulf nodded. ‘Yes. A bit, I think.’ He breathed in through his nose. ‘It smells so green.’

In his fleeting smile, she caught a glimpse of her child, burbling as he took his first steps.

Ninuru forged her way into the trees. As they drew closer to the old fig, Tunuva began to feel perturbed. The thought of facing Esbar clenched her chest. Her sisters might not even be there. More likely they had been called to a city far away, to defend its survivors.

Wulf followed Tunuva through the roots of the fig. She lit the tunnel with her flame, seeing it fascinate and unnerve him. He looked more like Meren when he was curious.

‘Your birthfather,’ Tunuva said slowly in Inysh. ‘Do you remember him?’

‘No.’ Wulf glanced at her. ‘Who was he?’

‘Meren.’

‘Meren.’ His pronunciation was careful. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’

Tunuva dropped her gaze with a nod, wishing they shared a larger trove of words.

On the other side of the tunnel, she removed the saddlebags from Ninuru and kicked off the sheepskin boots that had roasted her feet for leagues.

‘Tuva?’ She turned at that whisper of her name, and then Siyu was in her arms. ‘Oh, Tuva,’ she said thickly. ‘You’re home.’

‘Siyu.’ Tunuva grasped the back of her head, warmth flooding her heart. Siyu clutched her in return. ‘It’s all right, sunray. I’m home. I missed you.’

‘I missed you, too.’

Tunuva framed her face, shocked by the change in it. Months of battle had sheared her cheeks thin and hollowed her eyes, making her seem older than her nineteen years, and scars laddered her arms, which were lined with new muscle. She had cropped her hair from her waist to her shoulders, strengthening her resemblance to Esbar.

‘Esbar said you’d left,’ she said quietly, a remnant of pain in her voice. ‘Why, Tuva, when we needed you?’

Tunuva circled her cheekbone. ‘I did have reason. I will leave you to judge it.’ She hesitated, glancing towards Wulf. ‘Siyu, this is . . . my birthson, Armul. Wulf, as he was named in Inys.’

Siyu looked at him in disbelief. Wulf eyed her with wary interest.

‘Your birthson,’ Siyu said. ‘Is it true?’

‘I think it is.’

‘I am so pleased for you, Tuva. Now you have your own child back.’ Siyu smiled bleakly. ‘You need not have your name disgraced by a poor fool like me.’

‘Oh, Siyu – no, no.’ Tunuva drew her close again. ‘Having you carry my name is the great joy of my life. You are as much mine as you ever were. I just had to know.’

Siyu nodded into her shoulder. Tunuva suddenly remembered the day Esbar had told her birthdaughter the whole truth, and Siyu had come running, clambering into her lap to embrace her.

Tunuva, I love you. I’m so proud I have your name.

‘I would do the same for Lukiri,’ Siyu told her. Seeing Canthe, she went to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Canthe, you’re all right as well. I’m so happy you’re all home.’

‘Hello, sweet Siyu.’ Canthe smiled. ‘It’s good to be back. Is Lukiri well?’

‘Yes, she grows strong.’

‘Siyu,’ Tunuva said, ‘is Esbar here?’

Siyu turned back to her with a guarded expression. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve been in Isriq, but Esbar said we should return, to replenish our magic and supplies. Those who were waiting here have gone out in our stead. Should I find . . . Wulf somewhere to sleep?’ she added, sounding out the Inysh name with interest. ‘You must have had a hard ride.’

‘If you could. Thank you, sunray.’

Siyu took him by the arm. Wulf let himself be shepherded away, still drinking it all in.

A lamp burned in her sunroom. It touched Tunuva, to see it lit and warmed. Even though she had abandoned the Priory, her chamber had been kept ready. She opened her chest of garments and changed into a fresh robe, resisting the urge to lie down and sleep.

‘Tunuva.’

Esbar was in the doorway, dressed in pale apricot silks that fastened at her waist.

Her hair curled past her shoulders, tucked back to show her amber earrings. Like Siyu, she had new scars, thicker muscle. Strong as ever in body, but her face – her face betrayed the burden of leadership. Small dents undercut her eyes, which were dull and hard as stone. Tunuva closed the chest and stood.

Esbar confronted her with a clenched jaw. Not once in more than thirty years had Tunuva not known what to say to the woman she loved – but they had said so much, and not enough.

‘Did you find him?’ Esbar said at last. She stayed on the threshold. ‘Your birthson.’

‘Yes. He was in the North.’ Tunuva mirrored her, holding her position. ‘Esbar, before I say another word, you must know that at least some of the Easterners are assisting the wyrms, and have wyrms of their own. One of them attacked us in the mountains, and two women rode it. Clearly it is an established alliance – they even had a saddle.’

‘Did either of them have magic?’

‘I couldn’t tell. The wyrm attacked me on sight. It was not like any other I have seen,’ Tunuva said. ‘I think it had the same magic as Canthe. My red flame leapt to repel it.’

Esbar nodded. ‘We’ll consider the implications later,’ she said. ‘For now, we have enough to face.’ She folded her arms. ‘You are certain the person you found is Armul.’

‘His Inysh family called him Wulfert Glenn, but I know he is the child I birthed. I see myself in his face. I see Meren.’

‘Canthe was right, then.’ Esbar stepped into the firelight. ‘You were gone for a long time. I was afraid you had died.’ She sat in the chair beside the fire. ‘And then I was afraid you had decided never to come back.’

‘Surely you know me better than that.’

‘I thought so.’

Tunuva drew up the other chair, keeping the small table between them. ‘Siyu tells me you have been in the Ersyr.’

‘Yes. I have done as much as I can for Daraniya, but there are so many of these creatures, bent upon our destruction. I fear that this will only end when there is nothing left of us,’ Esbar said softly. ‘I cling to faith as flame clings to a wick already curled and black.’

‘The Mother will see us through this, Esbar.’

‘The Priory, perhaps. What of you and I?’

Tunuva had never thought she would feel truly cold again, until Esbar uq-Nāra asked her that question.

‘That decision must be yours.’ Her throat constricted as she spoke. ‘Nothing has changed for me.’

Esbar sank deeper into the chair. ‘All these years I have watched you grieve,’ she said, ‘and when you had hope, I failed to fan it. I was only afraid it was false hope, Tuva.’

‘You thought you were doing the right thing. Desperation made me foolish.’

‘We can all be foolish when it comes to love.’ Esbar breathed out. ‘Armul – Wulfert – is welcome here. I must confess, I am curious to see him. And glad to have a little more of you.’

All at once, her eyes were brimming. Esbar had not wept in so long. Tunuva reached across the table and took her by the hand, interlocking their fingers.

‘Is it enough?’ Esbar asked her in a strained voice. ‘Is our life enough for you now, Tuva?’

‘It was always enough. I just wanted the truth.’

Esbar tightened her grasp. ‘I would not live another day without you by my side,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Be with me. Forgive me, and I will give you the same grace. Let us do what we were born to do.’

Tunuva leaned across to her, setting their brows together. There they sat, for a long time: breathing, staying.