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

The scholar was surrounded by flaming torches. It seemed to Niclays as if he had been circling the mulberry tree for hours, reading by firelight. During that time, hardly a word had passed between any of the pirates.

When the scholar finally straightened, every head flicked up. The Golden Empress was sitting nearby, sharpening her sword with one hand while her wooden arm weighted it in place. Each rasp of the whetstone down the blade cut Niclays to the quick.

“I am finished,” the scholar said.

“Good.” The Golden Empress did not deign to look up. “Tell us what you have learned.”

Trying not to breathe too hard, Niclays reached into his cloak for his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“This is written in an ancient script of Seiiki,” the scholar said. “It tells the story of a woman named Neporo. She lived over a thousand years ago on this island. Komoridu.”

“We are all eager to hear it,” the Golden Empress said.

The scholar glanced up at the mulberry tree. Something about his expression still did not sit well with Niclays.

“Neporo lived in the fishing village of Ampiki. She made a paltry living as a pearl-diver, but despite her work, and that of her parents, her family had so little to live on that on some days, they had no choice but to eat leaves and soil from the forest floor.”

This was why Niclays had never understood Jannart’s obsession. History was miserable.

“When her younger sister died, Neporo decided to end the suffering. She would dive for rare golden pearls in the Unending Sea, where other pearl-divers dared not go. The water there was too cold, too rough—but Neporo saw no other choice. She rowed her little boat out from Ampiki, into the open sea. As she dived, a great typhoon blew away her boat, leaving her stranded among the unforgiving waves.

“Somehow she kept her head above water. With no idea how to read the stars, she could only swim for the brightest in the sky. Finally, she washed up on an island. She found it devoid of human life—but in a clearing, she beheld a mulberry tree of marvelous height. Weak with hunger, she ate of its fruit.” He traced some of the words with one finger. “Neporo was drunk on the thousand-flower wine. In ancient times, this was a poetic description for the elixir of life.”

The Golden Empress continued to sharpen her sword.

“Neporo finally escaped the island and returned home. For ten years, she tried to lead an ordinary life—she wed a kind painter and had a child with him. But her friends and neighbors noticed that she did not age, did not grow weak or sick. Some called her a goddess. Others feared her. Eventually, she left Seiiki and returned to Komoridu, where no one could look upon her as an abomination. The burden of immortality was so great that she considered taking her own life, but for her son, she chose to live.”

“The tree granted her immortality,” the Golden Empress said, still whetting the blade, “yet she believed herself able to take her own life.”

“The tree had granted her protection only from old age. She could still be hurt or killed by other means.” The scholar glanced at the tree. “Over the years, many followed Neporo to her island. Black doves and white crows flew to her, for she was mother to the outcasts.”

Laya tightened her grip on Niclays, and he tightened his on her.

“We should leave,” she breathed against his ear. “Niclays, the tree is dead. There is no elixir.”

Niclays swallowed. The Golden Empress seemed absorbed; he could slip away unnoticed.

And yet he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to stop listening to the story of Neporo.

“Wait,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Around the time the Dreadmount erupted,” the scholar continued, “Neporo received two gifts from a dragon. They were called the celestial jewels—and with them, the dragon told Neporo that she would be able to lock the Beast of the Mountain away for a thousand years.”

“Answer me this,” Padar cut in. “Why did the dragon need to ask a human for help?”

“The tree does not say,” came the calm reply. “Though Neporo was willing to stand, she could only control one of the jewels. She needed someone else to wield the second. That was when a miracle came. A princess of the South arrived on the shores of Komoridu. Her name was Cleolind.”

Niclays exchanged a stunned glance with Laya. The prayer books said nothing about this.

“Cleolind also possessed eternal life. She had vanquished the Nameless One before, but believed his wounds would soon heal. Determined to end him once and for all, she had gone in search of others who might be able to help her. Neporo was her last hope.” The scholar paused to wet his lips. “Cleolind, Princess of Lasia, took up the waning jewel. Neporo, Queen of Komoridu, took up its twin. Together, they sealed the Nameless One in the Abyss—binding him for a thousand years, but not one sunrise more.”

Niclays found himself unable to shut his jaw.

Because if this tale was true, then the founding legend of the House of Berethnet was nonsense. It was not a line of daughters that kept the Nameless One chained, but two jewels.

Oh, Sabran was going to be most upset.

“Cleolind had been weakened by her first encounter with the Nameless One. Facing him a second time destroyed her. Neporo returned the body to the South, along with the waning jewel.”

“And the other jewel—the rising jewel.” The Golden Empress spoke softly. “What became of it?”

The scholar placed a bony hand on the tree again.

“A section of the story is lost,” he said. Niclays saw that the bark had been viciously hacked. “Fortunately, we can read the end.”

“And?”

“It seems that somebody wanted the jewel for themselves. To keep it safe, a descendant of Neporo stitched the rising jewel into his own side, so it might never be taken from him. He left Komoridu and started a humble life in Ampiki, in the same pit-house Neporo had once lived in. When he died, it was taken from his body and placed into that of his daughter. And so on.” Pause. “The jewel lives in a descendant of Neporo.”

The Golden Empress looked up from her sword. Niclays listened to his own heartbeat.

“This tree is dead,” she said, “and the jewel is gone. What does this mean for us?”

“Even if it had not died, it says here that the tree only granted immortality to the very first person who ate of its fruit. After that, it withheld the gift of eternal life,” the scholar murmured. “I am sorry, all-honored one. We are centuries too late. There is nothing on this island but ghosts.”

Niclays began to feel very sick. The feeling intensified when the Golden Empress rose, her gaze pinned to his face.

“All-honored captain,” he said tremulously, “I brought you to the right place. Did I not?”

She walked toward him, sword held loosely in her hand. He grasped his cane until his knuckles blanched.

“Your prize may not be lost. Jannart had other books, in Mentendon,” he pleaded, but his voice was cracking. “For the love of the Saint, I was not the one who gave you the bloody map in the first place—”

“Indeed,” said the Golden Empress, “but it was you who brought me here, on this futile pursuit.”

“No. Wait— I can make you an elixir from the dragon’s scale, I am sure of it. Let me help you—”

She kept coming.

That was when Laya seized Niclays by the arm. His cane fell as she hauled him into the trees.

Her sudden move had taken the pirates by surprise. Ignoring the stairs, she crashed through the undergrowth, dragging Niclays with her. Behind them, the scouting party bellowed their fury. Terrible as the horn before the hunt.

“Laya,” Niclays gasped out, “this is very heroic, but my knees will never outrun a pack of bloodthirsty pirates.”

“Your knees will manage, Old Red, or you will not have knees,” Laya called back. Her voice had a razor edge of panic, but there was laughter there, too. “We’re going to beat them to the boat.”

“They left guards!”

As she dropped to a lower scarp of rock, Laya grasped the dagger in her belt with one hand. “What?” she said, extending the other hand to him. “Do you think all this time on pirate ships has taught me nothing about fighting?”

Niclays hit the ground with knee-jarring force. Laya pulled him down against a tree.

They lay still in the hollow of the tree. His knees screamed, and his ankle throbbed. Three pirates ran past them. As soon as they had disappeared into the foliage, Laya was on her feet again, helping Niclays up.

“Stay with me, Old Red.” She kept a firm hold of his hand. “Come on. We’re going home.”

Home.

They forged on, slithering where the mud was slack, and running when they could. Before Niclays knew it, the beach was in sight. And there was the rowing boat, with only two guards.

They were going to make it. They would row northward until they reached the Empire of the Twelve Lakes, and from there they would cast off from the East once and for all.

Laya let go of his hand, drew her dagger, and ran across the sand, cloak billowing behind her. She was fast. Before she could strike at the first guard, hands fell upon Niclays. The pirates had caught up with them. “Laya,” he shouted, but it was too late. They had her. She cried out as Ghonra twisted her arm.

Padar forced Niclays to his knees. “Padar, Ghonra,” Laya pleaded, “don’t do this. We’ve known each other so long. Please, have mercy—”

“You know us better than that.” Ghonra wrenched the knife from her hand and held it to her throat. “I gave this blade to you,” she bit out, “as a kindness, Yidagé. Beg again, and it will have your tongue.”

Laya clamped her mouth shut. Niclays wanted desperately to tell her it was all right, to look away, to say nothing. Anything so they might not kill her, too.

His bladder was threatening to give out. Clenching every muscle in his body, he tried to divorce his mind from his flesh. To float away from himself, into memory.

He quaked as the Golden Empress, unperturbed by the fleeting chase, crouched in front of him. And he imagined himself as a notch on her arm.

And he realized.

He wanted to feel the sun on his face. He wanted to read books and walk through the cobbled streets of Brygstad. He wanted to listen to music, to visit museums and art galleries and theatres, to marvel at the beauty of human creation. He wanted to travel to the South and the North and drink in all they had to offer. He wanted to laugh again.

He wanted to live.

“I brought my crew over two seas,” the Golden Empress said to him, so softly only he could hear, “for nothing but a story. They will need someone to blame for this disappointment—and I assure you, Master of Recipes, that it will not be me. Unless you would like Yidagé to take the fall on your behalf, it must be you.” She touched him under the chin with her knife. “They may not kill you. But I think you will be pleading for that mercy.”

Her face blurred. Close by, Ghonra gripped Laya by the throat, poised to spill her life.

“I can find some means of making it her fault.” The Golden Empress looked at her interpreter, who had sailed with her for decades, without remorse. “Lies cost nothing, after all.”

Once, Niclays had allowed a young musician to be tortured to spare himself the same fate. The act of a man who had forgotten how to serve anyone but himself. If he was to die with any pride, he would not let Laya suffer for him any more than she had already.

“You will do no such thing,” he said quietly.

Laya shook her head. Her face crumpled into a look of grief.

“Take him back to the Pursuit, and tell the crew what we found.” The Golden Empress rose. “Let us see what they will—”

She stopped. Niclays looked up.

The Golden Empress dropped her blade. A curved sword was across her throat, and Tané Miduchi was standing behind her.

Niclays could hardly believe who he was seeing. He gaped at the woman he had tried to blackmail.

“You,” he stammered.

Wherever she had been, the last few months had not been kind to her. She was thinner, her eyes smeared with shadow. Fresh blood on her hands. “Give me the key,” she said in Lacustrine, her voice deep and thick with hatred. “The key for the chains.”

None of the pirates moved. Their captain was just as still, her eyebrows raised.

“Now,” the dragonrider said, “or your leader dies.” Her hand was steady. “The key.”

“Somebody give it to her,” the Golden Empress said, sounding almost irritated by this interruption. “If she wants her beast, let her take it.”

Ghonra stepped forward. If her adoptive mother died here, she would be the next Golden Empress, but Niclays had sensed a filial loyalty from her. She reached under her collar and held up a bronze key.

“No,” the dragonrider said. “The key is made of iron.” The blade drew blood. “Take me for a fool again, and she dies.”

Ghonra smirked. She produced another key and tossed it.

“For you, dragon-lover,” she purred. “Best of luck getting back to the ship.”

“Let me leave unharmed, and I may not have to use this.”

The dragonrider threw the Golden Empress aside and held up her free hand. In it was a jewel the size of a walnut, blue as smalt.

Surely not.

Niclays started to laugh. A climbing, unhinged sort of laugh.

“The rising jewel,” the scholar breathed, staring. “You. You are the descendant of Neporo.”

The dragonrider stared back in silence.

Tané Miduchi. Heir of the Queen of Komoridu. Heir to an empty rock and a dead tree. It was clear from her expression that she had no idea. Riders were often taken from deprived homes. She must have been separated from her family before they could tell her the truth.

“Take my friend with you,” Niclays said to her suddenly, hot tears of laughter still in his eyes. He nodded to Laya, whose lips were moving in prayer. “I beg you, Lady Tané. She is innocent in all of this.”

“For you,” the dragonrider said, with the utmost contempt, “I do nothing.”

“And what of me?” the Golden Empress asked. “Do you not wish me dead, rider?”

The younger woman clenched her jaw. Her fingers wrung the hilt of her sword.

“Come. I am old and slow, child. You can put an end to the slaughter of dragons, here and now.” The Golden Empress tapped the flat of her own blade against her palm. “Cut my throat. Earn back your honor.”

With a cold smile, the dragonrider closed her fist around the rising jewel.

“I will not kill you this night, butcher,” she said, “but what you see before you is a ghost. When you least expect it, I will return to haunt you. I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. And I vow to you that if we meet again, I will turn the sea red.”

She sheathed her sword and walked into the darkness. With her walked the only chance of escape.

That was when one of the pirates fired his pistol after her.

Tané Miduchi stopped. Niclays saw her fist tighten around the jewel, and he felt the slightest tremor.

A wet roar filled the sky. Laya screamed. Niclays barely had time to look up, and to stare at the wall of water that was churning up the beach, before it swept them all into icy darkness.

Niclays went head over heels. His nostrils burned as he breathed salt water straight into his chest. Blind with dread, he grappled with the flood, bubbles swarming from his mouth. All he could see was his hands. When he broke the surface, his eyeglasses were lost. From what little he could make out, the pirates had been flung far and wide, the boat that had brought them here was empty, and Tané Miduchi had disappeared.

“Find her,” the Golden Empress roared. Niclays coughed up water. “Back to the ship. Bring me that jewel!”

The sea withdrew in a rush, as if sucked into the belly of a god. Niclays found himself on all fours on the sand, spluttering, hair dripping into his eyes.

A sword lay before him. His hand closed around it. If he could find Laya, they still had a chance. They could fight their way on to the boat and be gone . . .

As he called her name, he became aware of a shadow. He raised the sword, but the Golden Empress knocked it away.

A flash of steel, and another.

Blood on the sand.

A frothing gargle escaped him. He buckled, one hand locked over his throat. The other hand was gone. Somewhere in the chaos, Laya was shouting his name.

“My crew must have flesh.” The Golden Empress scooped up his hand as if it were a dead fish. He retched at the sight of it. Still flushed with life. Liver-spotted with his years. “Consider this mercy. I would take the rest of you, but my cargo is in danger, and carrying you would slow us down. You understand, Roos. You know good business.”

Darkness pumped from the screaming mouth of his arm. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt. Boiling oil. A sun in the stump. He would never hold a quill in this hand again. That was all he could think, even as his lifeblood welled from his throat. Then Laya was at his side, pressing the wound.

“Hold on,” she said, voice cracking. “Hold on, Niclays.” She gathered him close. “I’m here. I’m going to stay with you. You are going to sleep in Mentendon, not here. Not now. I promise.”

A ringing drowned her words. Just before his world turned black, he looked toward the sky and saw, at last, the form of death.

Death, as it turned out, had wings.

The Pursuit was such an enormous ship that the waves hardly disturbed it. One could almost dream that it was not on water at all. Loth sat in its hull, listening to the commotion on the deck, all too aware that he was deep inside a nest of criminals. He dared not let go of his baselard, but he had doused the lantern, just in case. It was a miracle that no one had come down here yet. Tané had been gone for what felt like an eternity.

The wyrm—no, dragon—observed him with a fearsome blue eye. Loth looked staunchly at the floor.

It was true that this creature did not look, or act, like the Draconic beasts of the West, though it was just as large. The horns were not unlike those of a High Western, but that was where the similarities ended. A mane like riverweed flowed down its neck. Its face was broad, its eyes round as bucklers, and its scales reminded Loth more of a fish than a lizard. He still had no intention of trusting or talking to it. One glimpse of its teeth, white and razor-sharp, and he knew it was just as capable as Fýredel of tearing him to shreds.

Footsteps. He shifted behind a crate and gripped the baselard.

His brow was damp. He had never killed. Not even the cockatrice. After all this madness, he was somehow free of that stain—but he would, to survive. To save his country.

When Tané appeared, her breathing was labored, her footsteps wove drunkenly, and she was soaked to the skin. Without a word, she took a key from her sash and undid the first of the padlocks. Loth helped her heave the chains away.

The dragon shook itself and let out a low growl. Tané stepped back, motioning for Loth to do the same, as it lifted its head and stretched to its full and formidable length. Loth was only too happy to oblige. For the first time, the beast looked angry. Its nostrils flared. Its eyes were on fire. It splayed its toes, found its balance, and, with one great swing, smashed its tail against the side of the ship.

The Pursuit shuddered. Loth almost lost his footing as the floor quaked beneath him.

Shouts came from above. The dragon was panting. If it was too weak to break through, they would all die here.

Tané called out to it. Whatever she said, it worked. The dragon steadied itself. Baring its teeth, it slammed its tail again. Wood splintered. Again. A chest slid across the floor. Again. The shouts from the pirates were closer now, their footsteps on the stair. With a snarl, the dragon rammed its body against the hull, gave it a mighty butt with its head—and this time, water came roaring in. Tané ran to the dragon and climbed onto its back.

Mortal sin or certain death. Death was the option the Knight of Courage would have taken, but the Knight of Courage had never needed to get to the Empire of the Twelve Lakes as badly as Loth did. Abandoning all hope of Halgalant, Loth waded after the murderous wyrm-lover. Desperately, he tried to climb her beast, but its scales were slick as oil.

Tané thrust out a hand. He grasped it, tasting salt, and she hoisted him up. As he looked for something to grip, he fought to blot out the rising dread. He was on a wyrm.

“Thim,” he shouted. “What about Thim?”

His words were lost as the dragon clawed from its prison. In panic, Loth grabbed on to Tané, who had lowered her head and grasped the wet mane that surrounded them. With a last push, the dragon writhed through the gaping hole in the Pursuit. Loth screamed as they plunged into the sea.

A roar in his ears. Salt on his lips. A freezing slap of air. Pistols were firing from the decks of the Pursuit, the gun ports were opening, and Loth was still astride the dragon. It slithered through the roiling waves, avoiding every shot. Tané gasped out desperate-sounding words, hands still wrapped in its mane.

It rose, like a feather caught by the wind. Water streamed from its scales as it left the sea behind. Thighs aching with the effort of remaining seated, Loth tightened his arms around Tané and watched the pirates turn to specks.

“Saint have mercy.” His voice cracked. “Blessèd Damsel, protect your poor servant.”

A flare of light made him look west. Now the sails of the Black Dove were on fire—and suddenly, wyrms were flocking. The Draconic Army. Loth searched the dark, heart booming.

There was always a master.

The High Western announced its presence with a jet of fire. It winged above the Black Dove and smashed through one of its masts with its tail.

Valeysa. The Flame of Despair. Harlowe had said she was near at hand. Her scales, hot as live coals, seemed to drink in the fire that now raged across the fleet. As her followers swarmed over the listing Pursuit, she let out a roar that shook Loth to his bones.

Tané urged her dragon onwards. The Rose Eternal was in sight. If they descended now, Valeysa would certainly mark them. If they fled, Thim would be on his own. Loth thought his stomach would drop out as their mount arced into a graceful dive.

Thim was in the crow’s nest. When he saw rescue coming, he scrambled even higher, to the top of the mainmast, and crouched there precariously. As it passed, the dragon scooped him up with its tail. He shouted, legs wheeling, as it yanked him from the Rose Eternal.

The dragon was on the rise again, toward a mantelshelf of cloud. It moved through the air as if it were swimming. Thim crawled painfully up its body, using its scales as handholds. When he was near enough, Loth reached out and helped him clamber on to its neck.

A shriek raised every hair on his arms. A wyvern was flying after them, spouting flame.

The dragon seemed as disturbed by the threat as it would be by a fly. The next jet of flame came so close that Loth smelled brimstone. Thim cocked his pistol and fired at the creature. It screamed, but kept coming. Loth squeezed his eyes shut. Either he was going to fall to his death, or he was going to be cooked like a goose.

Before either thing could happen, a powerful wind came from nowhere, almost unseating them all. The howl of it was deafening. When he could peel one eye open, Loth realized that the dragon was breathing the wind, as Draconic things breathed fire. Its eyes glowed welkin blue. Cloud smoked from its nostrils. Water beaded on its scales, only to be caught up and scattered like rain.

The wyrm screeched in rage. Its hide steamed and its jaws gaped open, but its flame was quenched, gusted back into its throat—and at last, the wind folded its wings and sent it tumbling toward the sea.

Rain battered Loth’s face. He spat water. Lightning flashed as the dragon entered the clouds, victorious, draping itself in fog as it ascended.

That was when Tané keeled to one side. As she fell, some merciful instinct made Loth snap out a hand. His fingers snared the back of her tunic, not a heartbeat too soon. The dragon growled. Breathing hard, Loth scooped Tané close, and Thim hooked an arm around them both.

Tané was lifeless, head lolling. Loth checked that the case was still on her sash. If it came undone now, the jewel would be forever lost to the sea.

“I hope you know how to talk to dragons,” he called to Thim. “Can you tell it where to go?”

No reply. When he looked over his shoulder, Loth saw that Thim was staring in wonder at the sky.

“I am seated on a god,” he said, moonstruck. “I am not worthy of this.”

At least somebody saw this nightmare as a blessing. Loth steeled himself and addressed the dragon.

“Well met, great dragon of the East,” he tried, shouting over the wind. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but I must speak to the Unceasing Emperor of the Twelve Lakes. It is of the utmost importance. Might you be able to take us to his palace?”

A rumble went through its body.

“Hold on to Tané,” it said in Inysh, “and yes, son of the West, I will take you to the City of the Thousand Flowers.”