A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

A leap mouse skipped and bounded through the sand, keeping up with the ichneumons as they wove between boulders and weathered spires. As Ninuru slowed, Tunuva watched the mouse hop out of sight over a dune, twirling its tail.

Now they were on a plain south of the Spindles, which the Ersyris called the Grove of Stone. Heat heaved from the sand, making the mountains ripple in the distance. Tunuva drained the last drops from her waterskin.

She could hold a boiled pot for longer than most, soak in a hotter bath – but too much warmth could be troublesome, in the burning days after eating the fruit.

They had picked up on the ichneumons’ trail as soon as they left the Priory, following a blackwater prong of the River Minara. Throughout the journey, Ninuru and Jeda had maintained they could smell both missing ichneumons, despite there only being one set of tracks in the forest. Tunuva had reservations, but all she could do was trust in their noses.

‘Why did Yeleni go with them?’ Esbar said testily. ‘Is she in love with this boy, too?’

Tunuva shook her head. ‘You know she worships Siyu. It was never wise to pair them.’

‘No,’ Apaya agreed. ‘Siyu needed an older girl as her hunting partner. I told Saghul so when she was seven.’

She stopped her grizzled ichneumon on an outcrop, where the ground dropped away into a deep canyon. Dark water sparkled far below.

‘The Last Well. Smaller than it once was.’ She was unruffled by the heat, though melted black paint marbled her cheekbones. ‘The Desert of the Unquiet Dream begins here.’

Ninuru panted. ‘Soon, honeysweet,’ Tunuva told her. Her fur was matted with sweat. ‘A little farther.’

All that lay ahead was hazy gold to the horizon. There was no longer any sign of the runaways. That was to be expected, now they were out of the Lasian Basin and into the desert, where the sands were always shifting.

Underground water had climbed to the surface and pooled, forming a lake. A herd of red deer lapped at its edge. Scenting the ichneumons, they fled in a cloud of dust. In her excitement, Jeda gave chase before Esbar had quite dismounted, throwing her into the sand.

‘I fed you, ingrate. From my own hand,’ she shouted after Jeda. Tunuva snorted with laughter before she could stop herself. ‘By the Mother, how she’s not tired—’ Esbar unknotted her wrap and used it to mop her face. ‘Then again, I won’t refuse a bite of fresh meat.’

Tunuva slid from her saddle. ‘I would like to herd all sheep into a ship and shove them out to sea,’ she said, drunk on the heat, ‘to be sure I never have to eat dried mutton again.’

‘I support this plot.’

‘If I may season this conversation with sense,’ Apaya said curtly, ‘watch for snappers. They come for the deer.’ She stayed astride. ‘I shall see if any Nuram tribes are close.’

Sending a sour look after her birthmother, Esbar took off her clothes. ‘You heard her.’ She blew out her cheeks and waded up to her hips in the lake. ‘Is the fever still on you?’

Tunuva shook out her hair. ‘More than ever.’

‘Come, then. It’s cool.’

Rushes slithered underfoot, giving the lake its rich darkness. When the water enfolded Tunuva, she sighed in relief and turned on to her back. Esbar came to float at her side.

‘We’re not going to catch her before the Harmur Pass,’ Tunuva said. ‘We will have to go into Mentendon.’

Siyu with a noose around her neck. Siyu kneeling by a block, hands tied behind her back.

‘Tuva.’ Esbar touched her hand. ‘Siyu has no magic yet. No one will mark her for a witch.’

‘Let us hope not.’

They beat the sand from their garments, washed them, and spread them in the sun to dry. Esbar wrapped her lower body with cloths, wadding moss between the layers, while Tunuva built a cookfire. The men had steamed plenty of curd root for their journey, swathing each batch in plantain leaf so it would keep for days. They opened a parcel each and ate.

Jeda soon returned, sheepish, and dropped a bloody shank beside Esbar. Once they had padded their bellies, Esbar dozed off in the shade while the ichneumons drank their fill. By afternoon, only Tunuva was awake, pushing back the shadows on the edges of her mind.

Siyu had been foolish and selfish. And yet, seeing Esbar stir in her sleep, Tunuva felt the same tenderness she always did, and wondered if Siyu felt that sweet ache when she looked at Anyso. It was a heady thing, to be young and in love for the very first time.

She and Esbar had been fortunate. More fortunate than many in the realms beyond the Priory. Trying to love in those realms must be like planting a seed among thorns – thorns of rank, of marriage, of the need for heirs. How many great loves had been strangled before they could grow, or withered away at the first sign of hardship?

Yes, she and Esbar had been lucky. Siyu had not.

It was sunset by the time Apaya returned. ‘No sign of the tribes,’ she told Tunuva. ‘A pity.’

Tunuva nodded. ‘Jeda made a kill,’ she offered. Apaya sat beside her and took a cut of venison from the spit. ‘How is the Queen of Queens?’

‘Cheerful and rich. She likes to surround herself with . . . eccentrics.’

‘Including you?’

When Apaya eyed her, Tunuva hid a smile.

‘Including me,’ Apaya conceded. ‘Court is never quiet. Last year, Daraniya offered her patronage to three identical sisters who learned mechanics in Bardant. Great inventors, apparently. A year ago, she hired an alchemist from Rumelabar, who delights her with his lofty claims that one day, he will turn all the sand in her deserts to gold.’

‘Is she religious?’

‘Nominally. One of her grandsons fosters an interest in the Six Virtues, and is smitten with a princess of Yscalin,’ Apaya said, with distaste.

Yscalin had a rich shared history with the South, but the adoption of the Six Virtues under Isalarico the Second had caused bitter divides. Since then, Yscalin had often sought to convert its neighbours, by marriage or by threats of force, depending on who was in power.

‘She also entertains followers of this mysterious seer, the one they call Raucāta,’ Apaya went on. ‘Three of her marcher wardens are among them, as is one of her brothers.’

Tunuva was intrigued. The writings of Raucāta, who had foretold the flaming destruction of Gulthaga, had been in the Ersyr for centuries. It was only now that her teachings had dedicated believers, though most Ersyris still followed the ancient Faith of Dwyn.

‘Yes, court is a busy place. Noisy.’ Apaya opened her saddle flask. ‘Still, Daraniya is a good queen, and I take pride in guarding her. Many of our sisters have protected fools.’

‘I hoped Siyu could protect someone.’

‘There is your error.’ Apaya looked her in the eye. ‘I’ve always liked you, Tuva. Esbar is strongest at your side – but when it comes to Siyu uq-Nāra, you are ruled by an old grief.’

Tunuva held her gaze. ‘It does not feel old to me.’

‘I know.’ Apaya glanced towards Esbar. ‘I know what it is to carry a child within oneself. To feel a life quickening. Had it happened to Esbar, it would have fallen hard on me.’

It. Even Apaya – Apaya, who had survived three miscarriages before she bore Esbar, who stayed close to the point as the neck of an arrow – could not quite speak of it.

‘In the Ersyr, they wall their traitors up in stone and let them die of thirst. In Inys, they pull them apart with horses,’ she said. ‘You know Siyu will face no such punishment, Tunuva.’

Execution was forbidden in the Priory. No Prioress would ever think of killing her own daughters.

‘We are about to enter the Desert of the Unquiet Dream,’ Apaya said. ‘Do you know how it received its name?’

Everyone did. The men had passed down many stories from the ancient South.

‘The Melancholy King,’ Tunuva said at length. ‘He fell madly in love with the Butterfly Queen. When she died, he sank into such unhappiness that none could shake him free of it.’

Tuva, please. Speak to me. Let me in.

‘His realm crumbled. His advisors despaired. Then, one night, a bearded star passed, and the king emerged to watch. For the first time in years, he saw beauty, and wept.’

The sun on her face, and wine on her tongue. Breathing the air without wanting to die.

‘Then he looked down,’ Tunuva said softly, ‘and there was the Butterfly Queen outside his palace, beckoning him to join her. And even though he knew she was dead, he followed her out of the city, all the way to this desert, desperate to hold his love one last time. He had no water. No shoes. All the while, he told himself: I am only dreaming. Only dreaming.’

‘And was he dreaming?’

‘No. The desert tricked his eyes. He died there, and the sand took his bones. Had he looked harder, he would have seen the truth. Love blinded him.’

‘The oldest story in the Ersyr,’ Apaya said, ‘and the wisest in the world.’ She lay down to sleep. ‘Think on it, Tunuva.’

****

For days, they kept close to the Spindles, until they reached the Harmur Pass. Flanked by cliffs, the way threaded between the Smoking Ridge and the Gulf of Edin, forming a corridor to Mentendon. Two lofty watchtowers guarded the pass, a pair of great bronze doors between them. Last those doors had closed, it had been to deter the Vatten from encroaching on the Ersyr.

The mountains of the Smoking Ridge had a more sinister cast than their southerly cousins. Like a scar on the land, they carved Mentendon from Yscalin, forming a wall thousands of feet high. Theirs was a dreadful beauty, holding equal measures of menace and allure.

‘I go no farther.’ Apaya tossed Esbar a pouch. ‘For the tolls. Ersyri coins for the way there, Mentish coins for the way home.’

Tunuva took out a coin. One face showed the wheel of Clan Vatten, the other the crude portrait of a man – Bardholt Hraustr, King of Hróth, holding a sword. The very sword the Mother had used to vanquish the Nameless One, its image stolen to peddle the lie they told in Virtudom.

‘Follow the salt road north along the Smoking Ridge. It will lead you to Sadyrr,’ Apaya said. ‘Be wary – Daraniya has received reports of small earthshakes and steaming vents.’ Tunuva thought of the hot spring. ‘Esbar, write soon. Tell me what becomes of Siyu.’

Esbar pocketed the pouch. ‘Of course.’

Tunuva turned to her ichneumon, hefting the saddlebags across her chest. ‘You should not go,’ Ninuru said to her. ‘There is a new smell on the wind.’

‘Is it horse?’ Tunuva stroked her ears. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be covered in that when I return.’

‘No. It smells like the tree,’ Ninuru said. ‘Like the beneath.’

‘No time for long farewells. A queen is without her protector.’ Apaya spoke in clipped tones. ‘Jeda, Ninuru – follow the scent of kingsrose, and you’ll find water. Wait for your sisters there.’

Ninuru butted Tunuva with her nose and stalked away. Jeda licked Esbar and followed.

‘Ready?’ Esbar asked. Tunuva shook her head and trudged towards the Harmur Pass.

They walked through the sand to the watchtower, where an Ersyri soldier took their toll. In return for another handful of coin, he let them choose a horse each for the journey.

It had been years since Tunuva had gone anywhere on horseback. It took time to adjust to the saddle, the slowness. They rode with travellers from all walks of life: merchants, explorers, mirrorfolk of the Faith of Dwyn. Others were heading south, perhaps seeking warmer climes.

By evening, they had reached a waystop, where the eastern cliffs parted for a beach. A camp had formed on its white sands. Beyond the tents, the Gulf of Edin sparkled in the crimson light of sunset, crisscrossed by tiny fishing boats and cutters with bright sails. While Esbar sought their supper, Tunuva approached a Mentish water merchant.

‘Do you speak Ersyri?’ she asked. The merchant nodded. ‘I’m looking for two young women, about seventeen, and a man, a little older. The women may have worn green cloaks.’

‘Have they run away from home?’ the merchant asked, sympathetic. ‘Many young people take the Harmur Pass, hungry for more of the world. They will make their own way back.’

‘Have you seen them?’

‘Possibly. I’ve no memory for faces, but yesterday I sold to a girl in a green cloak, with a small gold fastening, like a flower. She had an Ersyri hunting sword – I remember thinking her a little young for such a blade. But there was just one woman. No man with her.’

Tunuva handed over the saddle flasks, overpaying for the water. Esbar met her on the beach with bread and bowls of lentil stew. ‘One of the girls was here yesterday,’ Tunuva told her. ‘A green cloak with a gold fastening, and a sword. We should keep riding.’

Esbar passed her a loaf. ‘They separated, then?’

‘So it seems.’

Once they had eaten, they cantered out of the camp, into the silent dark. For a mile, shards of baked clay strewed the path, where travellers had tossed away their bowls.

At dawn, they reached the doors on the other side of the Harmur Pass, which were smaller, made of wood. ‘Welcome to Virtudom,’ a guard said in thick Ersyri as they approached. He wore the Vatten crest. ‘May the Saint guide your way.’

‘And yours as well,’ Tunuva said, also in Ersyri.

Esbar just lifted her chin. When they were through, they beheld Mentendon.

In all her life, Tunuva had only been this far north once before. Thin brown grass flanked the dusty path that stretched out from the doors. To the west, the Smoking Ridge continued.

‘Virtudom.’ Esbar narrowed her eyes. ‘We are lawbreakers and heathens now, Tuva.’

‘Then let us leave as soon as we can.’ Tunuva tightened her grip on the reins. ‘I have no wish to be in any place where the people worship the Deceiver.’

‘Agreed. Even if some were given no choice.’ Esbar sighed. ‘To the salt road, then. If I hear even one person insult the Mother, I will not be held responsible for my actions.’