The Priory of the Orange Tree (The Roots of Chaos)

The Sundance Sea was so crystal-clear that the sunset turned it to pure ruby. Niclays Roos stood at the prow of the Pursuit, watching the waves roll and swell.

It was good to be on the move. The Pursuit had docked for weeks in the ruined city of Kawontay, where merchants and pirates who defied the sea ban had built a thriving shadow market. The crew had loaded the ship with enough provisions and sweet water for a return journey, and enough gunpowder and other ordnance to flatten a city.

In the end, they had not sold Nayimathun. The Golden Empress had decided to keep her as leverage against the High Sea Guard.

Niclays pressed a hand to his tunic, where a vial of blood and the scale he had carved from the creature was concealed. Every night, he had taken out the scale to examine it, but all he could remember, when his fingers traced its surface, was the way the dragon had looked at him as he cleaved its armor from its flesh.

A rustle pulled his gaze up. The Pursuit was flying the crimson sails of a plague ship, purchased to aid its passage through the Sundance Sea. Nonetheless, it remained the most recognizable vessel in the East, and it had soon drawn the vengeful eye of Seiiki. When the High Sea Guard and its dragonriders had come to meet them, the Golden Empress had sent a rowing boat out with a warning. She would gut the great Nayimathun like a fish if so much as an inch of her ship was harmed, or if she caught any of them following. As evidence that she still had the dragon, she had sent one of its teeth.

Every dragon and ship had fallen back. They could hardly have done otherwise. Still, it was likely they were giving chase at a distance.

“There you are.”

Niclays turned. Laya Yidagé came to stand beside him.

“You looked pensive,” she said.

“Alchemists are supposed to look pensive, dear lady.”

At least they were moving. With every star they sailed under, they inched closer to the end.

“I paid a visit to the dragon.” Laya pulled her shawl closer. “I think it’s dying.”

“Has it not been fed?”

“Its scales are drying out. The crew throw buckets of seawater on it, but it needs to be immersed.”

Wind gusted across the ship. Niclays hardly noticed its bite. His cloak was heavy enough that he was as snug as a bear in its hide. The Golden Empress had gifted him these clothes after naming him Master of Recipes, a title given to court alchemists in the Empire of the Twelve Lakes.

“Niclays,” Laya said under her breath, “I think that you and I ought to make a plan.”

“Why?”

“Because if there is no mulberry tree at the end of this path, the Golden Empress will have your head.”

Niclays swallowed. “And if there is?”

“Well, then perhaps you won’t die. But I have had enough of this fleet now. I have lived as an old salt, but I have no intention of dying one.” She looked at him. “I want to go home. Do you?”

The word gave Niclays pause.

Home had been nowhere for so long. His name was Roos after Rozentun—a sleepy town overlooking Vatten Sound, where no one would remember him. Nobody but his mother was left, and she despised him.

Truyde might care whether he lived or died, he supposed. He wondered how she fared. Was she still agitating for an alliance with the East, or quietly mourning her lover?

For a long time, home had been at the Mentish court, where he had royal favor, where he had fallen in love—but Edvart was dead, his household dissolved, his memory confined to statues and portraits. Niclays had no place there now. As for his time in Inys, it had been nothing short of calamitous.

In the end, home had always been Jannart.

“Jan died for this.” He wet his lips. “For the tree. I cannot walk away without knowing its secret.”

“You are Master of Recipes. Doubtless you will be granted time to study the tree of life,” Laya muttered. “If we find the elixir, I suspect the Golden Empress will take us north to the City of the Thousand Flowers. She will try to sell it to the House of Lakseng in return for an end to the sea ban. We could escape into the city, and from there we can flee on foot to Kawontay. You can take a few samples of the elixir with you.”

“On foot.” Niclays huffed a quiet laugh. “In the unlikely event that we survive that journey, what would we do from there?”

“There are Ersyri smugglers in Kawontay who operate in the Sea of Carmentum. We should be able to persuade them to take us across the Abyss. My family would pay them.”

There was no one who would pay for his passage.

“They would pay your way, too,” Laya said, seeing his face. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’re very kind.” He hesitated. “What will we do if there is no mulberry tree at the end of the path?”

Laya gave him a look.

“If they find nothing,” she said quietly, “then take to the sea, Niclays. It will be kinder than her rage.”

He swallowed.

“Yes,” he conceded. “I suppose it would.”

“We will find something,” she said, gentler. “Jannart believed in the legend. I believe he is watching over you, Niclays. And that he will see you home.”

Home.

He could give the elixir to any ruler he desired, and they would grant him protection from Sabran. Brygstad was where he most desired to go. He could rent a garret in the Old Quarter and make ends meet teaching alchemy to novices. He could find a little pleasure in its libraries, and the lectures in its university halls. If not there, then Hróth.

And he would find Truyde. He would be a grandfather to her, and he would make Jannart proud.

As the Pursuit struck into deeper waters, Niclays stayed beside Laya, and they watched the stars come out. Whatever awaited them, one thing was certain. He or his ghost would be laid to rest.