A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Glorian spent every moment she could with her father, basking in his attention. He always made time for her in the mornings, when they broke their fast together on his balcony, and at supper, she had a place of honour by his side. She was so overjoyed she feared she might burst.

As the days passed, the guests from her commendation returned to their own provinces and countries. The Carmenti were last to go. On their final day at court, Queen Sabran invited them to dine once more with the royal family and the Virtues Council.

The Old Hall was dim at midday, shuttered against the sun. Glorian worked her way through a spiced beef pie while her father told her of his latest adventures. Like most Hróthi, he was a remarkable storyteller. She had yearned for his life for the whole of her own – the winter swims, the tests of strength, the late hunts beneath the glow of the sky lights.

He still attacked his food like a starved bear. While they talked, he tore through hocks of salted ham and goose legs dripping fat and honey, making sure her plate was always piled high, too. Ever since she was small, he had taught her that a warrior should eat well.

‘Tell me about your suitors,’ he said in his thick Inysh. ‘Did Magnaust Vatten impress?’

Glorian gave him a look. ‘Which one was he?’

Her father boomed a laugh. ‘Uninspiring gallants, then.’ He took a great swallow from his goblet. ‘The elder son of Heryon Vattenvarg. I’m told he is well-read and devout, with fine grey eyes.’ When Glorian snorted, he leaned in close to her. ‘Ah. I see I must sharpen my axe.’ She grinned. ‘Tell me, what offence did he commit?’

‘Had I sat a mommet in my place, I doubt he would have noticed,’ Glorian said. That made him frown. ‘And he seems to have no affection for Mentendon, the country he will rule.’

Bardholt grunted. ‘Common among the Vatten. They were made to sack cities, not rule them.’ He drained his cup. ‘They grow too proud in Brygstad. He should have paid you more respect.’

Magnaust had already gone back to his father. Glorian wondered if he had given her a second thought. Hopefully not.

‘Come,’ Bardholt said, nudging her. She found a smile. ‘Let us drink to you, daughter.’ He beckoned his cupbearer, and the young man stepped forward to fill his goblet. ‘Glorian, this is Wulfert Glenn. I thought it was time he came back to visit his homeland.’

‘Lady,’ the cupbearer said, and bowed with perfect form. ‘An honour.’

Glorian recognised that voice. The man she had encountered in the gallery. Like all the retainers who protected her father, he wore a mail shirt under a leather surcoat, boots that reached his knees, and a bone-handled sax on his belt.

Now the light was better, she took the measure of him. Thick hair fell in curls so dark as to be almost black. He wore it short for a housecarl, only to his nape. His eyes were large and just as dark, his skin a warm golden brown.

He was not quite as tall as her father – no one was – but he was taller than Glorian, which was no small feat. She and her mother towered over almost everyone at court.

‘Master Glenn,’ she said, wondering why his face gave her pause. ‘Good day. Whereabouts in Inys are you from?’

Too late, she remembered not to ask questions. A queen only made statements. Then again, she was not yet a queen.

‘The Lakes, my lady,’ he said. ‘I’m the younger son of the Barons Glenn of Langarth.’

‘And have you been knighted?’

‘No, Highness.’

A younger son without the spurs. A peculiar choice for a cupbearer. ‘He will be. I am confident of that,’ King Bardholt said, with a proud smile. ‘Wulf has greatness in his future.’

The odd sense of familiarity rose. Wulfert Glenn regarded her, a small crease in his brow.

‘I wondered if you’d remember.’ King Bardholt gave a hearty chuckle. ‘You were playmates as children. Whenever I visited Inys, the two of you would chase one another through the gardens and orchards, soak each other in the fountains, all sorts of mischief to vex your minders.’

The cupbearer had been schooled in restraint, but his eyes told Glorian he remembered, and now so did she. Suddenly he was a touch shorter, with pimples and a breaking voice.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Your Highness.’

Glorian strained her memory, finding impressions, pressed like a scent into fabric, like a seal into wax: the flower maze in bloom, the taste of plums, the cloying haze of the high summer.

Queen Sabran finally lured her consort into conversation with the Virtues Council. Wulfert Glenn swithered, staying near Glorian. She offered him a reassuring smile.

‘So,’ she said, so only he could hear, ‘who was the mysterious woman in the gallery?’

He gave her father a cautious look, but the king was already enmeshed in an intense discussion. Keeping his voice low, he said, ‘Truly, my lady, we weren’t trysting.’

‘It’s all right. I’m just curious.’

‘She’s the head of my lith. Regny of Askrdal, niece of Skiri the Condoler.’

‘Skiri Longstride,’ Glorian said, intrigued. ‘Her murder began the War of Twelve Shields.’

‘Aye.’ Gaining confidence, he filled her goblet. ‘One of her brothers was the only surviving member of the clan. He died a few years ago, so Regny – his daughter – is already Chieftain of Askrdal.’

‘She must be formidable, with such a heritage.’

The corners of his mouth lifted. ‘She is.’ He wiped the pitcher with a cloth. ‘King Bardholt sent us to watch over the feast, so he knew when he could make his entrance.’

‘I see.’ Glorian hesitated. ‘Do you really remember me, Master Glenn, or were you being courteous?’

His gaze fastened on hers. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember.’

‘I didn’t at all, at first. You look quite different.’ Glorian used her good hand to pick up the goblet, now heavy with sweet black mead. ‘May I ask how old you are now?’

‘Eighteen, or thereabouts, I think.’

‘Surely you know for certain.’

‘Not quite. A long story, Your Highness.’

‘I’d like to hear it. Tomorrow, perhaps?’

‘Surely Her Highness has a great deal more to do than speak with a humble retainer.’

‘Her Highness has little to do but watch the trees grow, since her arm is in two pieces.’

‘Ah. I wish you swift healing. I broke my leg as a boy.’

‘Not when we were having forgettable chases through the grounds of Glowan Castle, I trust.’

‘No. I was fool enough to walk on the ice without my cleats. A mistake I never made again.’ He returned her smile. ‘Kind as your invitation is, I leave for the Lakes at dawn. I’ve not seen my family since the last time I was here.’

‘Of course. Safe travels to you, Master Glenn.’

With a bow, he retreated. Glorian finished her sweet curds and propped her head on her knuckles.

Temperance was not a virtue her father had ever cultivated. He drank twice as much as he ate. By the time the final course arrived, his face had flushed red as raw mutton.

‘Tell me, Numun of Carmentum,’ he called in his stentorian voice, ‘how should one address a person of your . . . standing?’

Across the Old Hall, conversations tapered away.

‘Decreer will suffice, Your Grace,’ Numun said. Today she wore an elegant cream robe, pinned with a brooch at her shoulder. ‘My principal duty is to decree the will of the Carmenti.’

‘And what is it that these people know of politics, that they decide who steers a realm, and how they steer it?’ Bardholt said. ‘My grandfather was a seafarer, Decreer. He would not have let just anyone choose the captains of his ships, for they knew nothing of the sea.’

‘We officials trust those who elect us,’ Numun explained, ‘because we are confident they understand the world in which they live. Carmentum has several halls of knowledge, dedicated to rigorous study and debate, inspired by those in Kumenga and Bardant.’

‘All this without the guiding hand of the Saint.’

‘The Carmenti are free to follow any religion, but saints and gods do not govern us.’

Glorian glanced at her mother, who had been silent throughout this exchange. As she drank from her goblet of wine, Glorian remembered one of her early lessons in temperance. A queen should learn the ways of watching. Like a falcon, she waits for her moment to strike. She also knows when she need not strike at all – when her shadow, her presence, is more than enough.

‘Monarchs do not govern you, either. It seems we are useless relics to you,’ King Bardholt said, with a terrifying smile, ‘and yet here you are, asking for trade in the court of a queen.’

‘We respect other ways, and the people of Virtudom,’ the Decreer said, still calm, ‘but we ourselves do not see blood as high or low. It is commitment and talent that matters – a belief I thought you of all people would share, King Bardholt.’

A chill stole over the benches.

‘Me,’ he said, his expression fixed. ‘Of all people.’

If he had spoken to Glorian that way, she would simply have sailed west and never returned, but the Decreer decided to give the bear another poke: ‘You were born to a bone carver, not a king. Surely you must agree that blood is of no true importance.’

No one dared speak. King Bardholt was holding his goblet so hard that Glorian feared it might snap in his grasp.

A clear voice disturbed the stillness. ‘We must both disagree on that, Decreer.’

Heads turned. Queen Sabran put down her own cup, its slight clink like a thunderclap.

‘You see, here in Virtudom, we know the House of Berethnet is the chain upon the Nameless One. King Bardholt has long seen this truth.’ She covered his hand with hers. ‘It is my blood – the Saint’s blood – that chains the Beast of the Mountain. As a Southerner, you understand the violence he would unleash if that blood were no longer in the world.’

Glorian looked at her parents’ interlocked hands. The queen’s fingertips were white.

She had waited for the trap to form, and then she had sprung it. With no choice but to concede or risk the room’s anger, Numun inclined her head and returned to her meal.

Not long after, dinner was over.

****

With her arm broken, Glorian was bored out of her wits. All she wanted was to be outside, hunting and sparring with her father, for the short time he would be in Inys.

On the day the Carmenti left, she was playing cards with her ladies when a messenger appeared. ‘Highness,’ he said with a bow, ‘Queen Sabran would like you to join her for supper tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ Glorian said, sinking back into her settle. He retreated. ‘I wonder what Mother wants.’

‘Perhaps to discuss your suitors,’ Julain said.

Glorian bit the inside of her cheek. Helisent caught the look on her face. ‘Why don’t I fetch us some crispels?’ she offered. ‘The kitchen made a fresh batch today.’

She left before Glorian could stop her. For once, her belly was in too much of a twist for crispels.

‘Jules,’ she said, ‘do you remember somebody called Wulfert Glenn?’

‘Wulf?’ Julain said, distracted. ‘Yes, of course. You played together as children, we all did.’ She slowed. ‘Wait. Was that him, at the high table – the handsome cupbearer?’

‘Yes. I’d forgotten him.’ Glorian glanced at her. ‘A housecarl is a curious playmate for a princess.’

‘You two were so close. I remember being a little jealous,’ Julain admitted. ‘When Wulf came to court, no one else could hold your attention, Glorian. You would spend hours with him.’

A strange thing to forget. Glorian gazed at her cards, lost in a soft and sun-drenched memory of running.

****

The Royal Sanctuary at Drouthwick Castle was small, like many in the north of Inys, where the old ways had held strongest before the Saint founded Ascalun. Inside, Glorian fidgeted beside her mother while a sanctarian read from the story of the Saint and the Damsel.

‘And the knight said:

‘Come, ye wretched, poor, and weary, come behold the wonders I have wrought. Hear the song of victory I bring from red and barren sands. I was born among you. I lived among you. I was among you when the earth roared, and when smoke eclipsed the sun. Then to the dusts of Lasia I rode, and there I slew the Beast of the Mountain. There I won the heart of Cleolind.’

Her mind drifted back to Wulfert Glenn. Now she stood in the gloom of the sanctuary, she thought she could trace the strand of remembrance. Gilt thread woven through shadow.

‘Behold, my dread sword Ascalun, forged of the night that gave me name. Behold, a scale of reddest iron, carved from the breast of the great fiend.

‘And the people heard, and, believing in him, gave unto him their love and allegiance.’

Queen Sabran clasped her hands. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving with the reading.

‘When her time came, Queen Cleolind bore unto him a daughter, Sabran, she who would rule long and rightwise. But her birth was Cleolind’s doom, and as he blessed their only child, the Saint called to his anguished people:

‘I tell you, to honour her, my line shall be a line of queens; my realm, a queendom mighty to behold; for she was my strength, the root of my heart, and her memory will live until the end of time itself. I tell you, our house shall be an endless river, a chain long as eternity. I tell you it will hold the wyrm at bay for ever more.’

Glorian looked down at the blue veins of her hand, branching under her skin.

‘We call upon the Saint, who sits in Halgalant, to bless his descendants.’ The sanctarian closed her book. ‘May he bless our good Queen Sabran. May he bless her mother, Marian, Lady of the Inysh. And may he bless our princess, Glorian, whose womb will spring the next fruit of the vine.’ Glorian shifted her weight. ‘They are the river, the chain, the promise.’

‘The river, the chain, the promise,’ the congregation echoed. ‘May he bless the Queendom of Inys.’

‘Go,’ the sanctarian called, ‘and live in virtue.’

Queen Sabran made the sign of the sword. She was first to leave, flanked by her ladies.

At dusk, Glorian rejoined her in the royal solar, the Dearn Chamber. It was one of the few rooms in the castle with glass in its windows, thick forest glass with a green tinge. Her mother sat in the glow of a fire, with the Great Seal of Inys on the table in front of her.

‘Glorian,’ she said.

‘Good evening, Mother.’

Beside her was Lord Robart Eller, the Duke of Generosity, as well-presented as always. ‘Princess,’ he greeted Glorian. ‘How good to see you. Forgive me, but I had a matter of some import to examine with Her Grace. Our discussion went on longer than we expected.’

‘It’s quite all right, Lord Robart. The gold brooch you sent for my commendation is splendid,’ Glorian said, remembering her manners. ‘I have not seen one quite like it before.’

‘Believe it or not, it was dug up from a field, likely buried there by Hróthi raiders,’ Lord Robart said, raising her curiosity. ‘Apparently its treasures originate from Fellsgerd. I thought the brooch would make a fine gift for the Princess of Hróth, so I asked a goldsmith to restore it to its former glory. I am glad you liked it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Here, Robart.’ Queen Sabran handed him the document. ‘I will see you on the morrow.’

‘Your Grace.’

He bowed to them both and made himself scarce, leaving Glorian alone with her mother, who was already writing again.

‘Sit with me, please, Glorian.’

Glorian took the chair at the other end of the table.

‘Your father tells me you found your suitors unimpressive,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘Is that so?’

‘I did not take a . . . special liking to any of them.’

‘I hear Magnaust Vatten caused you particular affront.’ She did not look up from her letter. ‘You will agree, however, that no one can be judged by such a short-lived meeting.’

They grow too proud in Brygstad. Glorian lifted her chin. He should have paid you more respect.

‘I took the measure of his person, Mother,’ she said. ‘He struck me as selfish and unkind.’

‘Your father struck me as a cruel brute when he first came to Inys, wearing a crown of shattered bone.’

Queen Sabran dripped red wax on the letter and pressed her seal into it. She slid it closer to the fire to help it dry.

‘Since the Vatten are Hróthi, they are your father’s subjects,’ she said, steepling her fingers on the table. ‘Officially, they are only his stewards, governing Mentendon on his behalf.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you must have wondered why Heryon Vattenvarg knelt to your father in the first place. The man had already seized a realm of his own, after all. He could have defied his rightful king.’

‘He could not stand against the Chainmail of Virtudom,’ Glorian said. ‘No one could.’

‘No. But to ensure a lasting peace between Hróth and Mentendon, it was agreed that your cousin, Einlek Óthling, would be betrothed to Brenna Vatten, Heryon’s only daughter.’

The fire was too hot.

‘Your father did not just come here for your commendation. He also brought the sad tidings that Brenna is dead,’ Queen Sabran informed her. ‘She was to marry Einlek in the spring.’

‘May the Saint receive her in Halgalant.’

‘By his mercy.’ Queen Sabran made the sign of the sword. ‘Heryon has two other children – Magnaust, the firstborn, and Haynrick, who is only two. Since Einlek needs an heir of the body, he cannot wed Magnaust, who could not provide him with one.’

Glorian came to the miserable realisation: ‘You want me to marry Magnaust.’

‘I would sooner wed you to an Yscal – it has been too long since we showed our oldest friends our favour. But Heryon Vattenvarg is a proud man who grows prickly with age. With the Carmenti speaking against monarchy, we can risk no internal tension among the faithful. Your betrothal will appease Heryon and keep the Chainmail of Virtudom strong.’

A long silence. Glorian thought of Magnaust Vatten – that sneering face, a voice soaked in contempt.

‘Why give me the impression of choice?’ she heard herself ask. ‘Why not just tell me it would be him?’

‘Glorian, you are not a child any longer. I will not have you sulking over this,’ Queen Sabran said coolly. ‘Magnaust will one day be Steward of Mentendon. You will not have to spend a great deal of time with him, if he displeases you. All you require of him is a child.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want a child. Or a stupid companion,’ Glorian burst out. ‘Perhaps I never have.’

A terrible hush followed. Glorian thought she might faint. Her deepest secret – the secret she had kept for years – and there it was, out in the open, like the bone from her arm.

‘Tell me, daughter,’ Queen Sabran said, deadly soft, ‘did you listen to the sanctarian today?’

Glorian trembled. She had just committed an unforgivable blasphemy.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

Her ribs tightened like laces. What if her guards had heard, and spread the word that the heir scorned her calling?

‘We have one bounden duty. To continue the bloodline of the Saint, and thus shield the world from the Nameless One. It is the only thing in which we Berethnets have no choice,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘A trifling sacrifice, in exchange for the privileges our crowns grant us.’

A thousand retorts screamed in Glorian. She wrestled them down. ‘When am I to wed?’

‘As soon as legally possible, when you are seventeen.’

Glorian stared at her mother, eyes filling.

‘Our recent ancestors almost ruined this realm,’ Queen Sabran said quietly. ‘You and I cannot make a single misstep, Glorian. All eyes are upon us, waiting for proof that we are the same – that the Carmenti have it right, that you and I are not the holy shield. So we do not break. We do not falter. We do our Saint-given duty without complaint.’ Pause. ‘One day, you will sit across a table from your own daughter and tell her who she will wed for the realm, and you will remember this.’

‘No. I will never be like you,’ Glorian said, voice cracking. ‘I have done pretending to be!’

Queen Sabran made no attempt to stop her as she threw the door open and rushed past her startled guards. At the end of the corridor, she almost crashed into her father.

‘Glorian.’ He caught her by the shoulders, stooped to look her in the face. ‘Glorian, what is it?’

She took one look at his expression – so concerned, so tender – and burst into hot tears of dismay. Before he could ask again, she slipped his hold and fled, sobs wrenching her chest.