A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

Her court attire was twice as heavy as it looked, each of the six garments dyed a pale shade of the rainbow. All were interleaved with thin layers of white.

The servants had brushed pearl dust across her cheeks and brow. Nothing else. The world needed to see her face. Since her hair remained too short to shape, they had trimmed and combed it smooth. The crown on top put a strain on her neck – a delicate concoction of seashells and pearls.

Her cart was open to the world, cowries hanging from its roof. Lady Taporo had explained how important it was that the people knew she existed before she entered Antuma Palace. She would not be able to disappear if everyone knew she was there.

Lady Taporo had nursed her through her arrival. For days, she had been so unwell that she had not even tried to rise, listening to her cousin from within the safe nest of her bedding. She still had a dry cough, and her skull felt too small for what was inside it.

She must hide the earth sickness at court. Not for one moment could she appear weak.

Several guards had accompanied her through the city gate. Now they continued along the Avenue of the Dawn, where fifty thousand people had gathered to see the lost Princess of Seiiki.

Drums beat out her approach. Fascinated faces jostled for a look at hers. For the first time in days, she was glad she could no longer see Mount Ipyeda, though its presence was like a cold wind at her back. She could not look towards it. Only ahead.

Yet how could she help but think of her mother, who had lived here as a child? Unora had slept in one of these mansions, played under the willow trees that leaned over the cart.

The rooftops of Antuma had been painted every colour imaginable; from above, the city was one great rainbow. As for the palace, it was larger than Dumai had ever imagined. When she reached it, she would meet her sister, Princess Suzumai, the child she would eventually usurp.

Treading with care, Emperor Jorodu meant to confirm Dumai as his heir only after three years. During those years, she would need to prove herself worthy of the throne, so the Kuposa could raise no objection. She would receive a rigorous education in politics and law.

You will have to learn to be an empress, Lady Taporo had told her, in a very short amount of time. It will not be easy.

The cart rolled, the drums thundered, and at last, the people of Antuma fell away, unable to follow her any farther. Dumai shut her eyes, her skin clammy.

Great Kwiriki, please, let me not disgrace myself.

The clay wall of the palace loomed. So did its western gate. Over it, rooftops sloped towards the ground, silver glistening in their gables. Dumai kept her eyes closed as her cart went across the moat.

At last, they stopped. Courtiers and officials waited in a grand courtyard, their hair moulded into seashells, servants hovering close. In unison, they bowed.

Her father stood in robes like hers. His crown was a tower of coral and cowries, fronted with two silver dragons, a fist-sized dancing pearl between them. Dumai went to her knees in front of the steps, on the mat that had been laid there.

‘Daughter,’ her father said, loud and clear. ‘Welcome to Antuma Palace. Your new home.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

He came to her and helped her stand. Dumai looked up at him, so tired she thought she might sink through the ground.

‘I have you.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Lift your face. Let them see.’

His kindness was a comfort. She did as he asked as he led her up the steps, into the largest building she had ever beheld, with ornate gables and a roof thatched with water reed.

Inside was a smoky gloom. Wooden dragons wound around stone pillars, wide as she was tall. The walls were darkly painted scenes from history and legend – some she knew, and some that she had yet to know. Silver and gold leaf glinted from blades and cresting waves and scales. There was Snow Maiden, Kwiriki curled at her breast, keeping to a small form while he healed.

Water dripped from decorative spouts and flowed through channels in the floor. Sunlight reflected off its surface, making the pillars ripple, and poured in through a sky window.

Beneath it stood the Rainbow Throne.

Dumai knew its story by heart. When dragons had first come to Seiiki, its people had feared the giant creatures and driven them away – but one woman had seen their beauty, and mourned their loss. She would walk on the cliffs of Uramyesi and sing her sorrow to the sea. The story called her Snow Maiden, for she would walk even in the harsh winter.

One day, she had found a wounded bird and carried it to her modest home. Unbeknownst to her, the bird was Kwiriki, foremost and greatest of all dragons. She had mended his broken wing. Once he had the strength to turn back into a dragon, he had given her one of his horns, to thank her. She had proven that humans could be wise and gentle. Their friendship had begun the mutual respect between dragonkind and the Seiikinese.

The Rainbow Throne bore witness to it – a gift to the first Queen of Seiiki. Its spiralled back almost reached the ceiling, curving like a ladle into a smooth seat. Every colour danced in that pillar of dragonbone, and mist drifted around it. Dumai looked at it in silence.

This was the throne she had to win.

Two people stood to the left of it. One was a woman, about the same age as Unora. ‘Daughter,’ Emperor Jorodu said, ‘I present Her Majesty, Sipwo, Empress of Seiiki.’

Dumai locked eyes with Kuposa pa Sipwo. Her hair was spoked to resemble a spider conch. It must have taken her attendants half the day to shape it, and caused her no small degree of pain.

‘Princess Dumai.’ Her voice gave nothing away. ‘It is my pleasure to be your stepmother.’

‘And my honour to meet you, Your Majesty.’

Empress Sipwo continued to study her face. ‘My younger daughter,’ Emperor Jorodu said. ‘Noziken pa Suzumai, Princess of Seiiki.’ He offered a smile to the child. ‘Suzu, finally – this is your sister, Dumai. She has come all the way from Mount Ipyeda.’

Suzumai stepped away from her mother. She was pale, like Sipwo, and small for her age, swamped by her long black hair. Downturned eyes peeked shyly at Dumai. A bundle of scarring had almost closed the left one, from the barnacle pox that had killed her brothers.

‘Welcome, big sister.’ She held out a box. ‘For you.’

Dumai freed her hands from her sleeves to take it. Inside was a hairpiece, carved into the golden fish of the House of Noziken. ‘How beautiful.’ She closed it and smiled. ‘I’m very happy to meet you, little sister.’

Suzumai smiled back. Her two front teeth had yet to grow in. ‘I never had a sister.’

Empress Sipwo clenched her jaw and beckoned Suzumai into her arms. She nodded to a servant, who blew two long notes through a conch.

Courtiers filed into the hall and bowed before the imperial family. Dumai searched for the silver bell, finding it on the robes of the first man she saw, and the next. There were other crests, but not half as many.

‘Before you stands a princess of the rainbow line,’ Emperor Jorodu told them. ‘Noziken pa Dumai, my eldest.’

A breeze of whispers crossed the hall.

‘Since she was a child, my daughter has been a godsinger at the High Temple of Kwiriki. Now she comes to live at my side.’ Murmurs. ‘Though she was not raised here at court, she is closer to the gods than any of us, having praised them every day on Mount Ipyeda.’

He stopped when two more people entered. They strode between the two columns of courtiers.

Like the emperor, the man stood at middling height and build, but such was the confidence of his gait that he seemed to take up far more space than he occupied in body – a moon casting light a long way from itself. Dumai had never seen a person look so enormously content. His grey beard was braided into a fishtail, and his travelling clothes were sumptuous, broidered with silver thread. She guessed he was around seventy, still spry.

‘River Lord,’ Emperor Jorodu said, his tone cool. ‘You were not expected until later in the season.’

‘I came at once when I heard, Your Majesty. A new pearl for our court,’ the bearded man exclaimed. ‘I could hardly believe it. Can this be the mysterious Princess Dumai?’

‘As you see.’

Never taking his gaze off Dumai, the newcomer brandished a wide smile and bowed.

‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘welcome. Welcome to Antuma. I am the River Lord of Seiiki, and granduncle to your sister, Princess Suzumai. How very like your father you look.’

And so the duel began.

‘My lord,’ Dumai said. ‘I understand you were my father’s regent.’ He inclined his head. ‘I trust your time away was restful, cut short though it was.’

‘It was, Princess, and I thank you for asking. There is nowhere quite so beautiful or calming as the temple at Fidumi,’ he remarked, ‘or at least, not that I have personally set foot in. My daughter assures me that Mount Ipyeda is the most impressive place she has ever visited.’

Dumai finally noticed the woman beside him. It was her – the Kuposa climber. Nikeya.

Lady Nikeya, of Clan Kuposa.

She was his daughter.

‘One must ask why you would ever leave such sacred precincts,’ the River Lord continued. Dumai tore her gaze back to him. ‘Perhaps a life of worship was not to your taste after all?’

‘I have served the great Kwiriki for a long time,’ Dumai said, ‘and continue to serve him now. I dreamed he called me to the palace, and the very next day, His Majesty came.’ She allowed her smile to widen. ‘It is, of course, understandable that a man of your worldly experience should grow restless in a temple. Religious devotion is a difficult commitment.’

‘As is devotion to the people. I trust you do not feel ill-suited to your position, Princess,’ the River Lord said, ‘having spent so little time on the ground. I am considered by some to be a gifted poet; I have worked at my craft since I was a boy. What a waste it would be if I were to throw away that skill so late in life, and to instead become a crude musician.’

Talking to this man was already like fighting a windstorm.

‘A lute must have several strings to make a song.’ Dumai spoke calmly. ‘I think it never too late to learn.’

‘We can only hope the ways of our palace will merit the same attention as the sacred rites. On that subject, you must tell us all how you came to be on the mountain in the first place! Such a precious thing, a firstborn child – how could she be unknown to us?’ the River Lord asked the entire hall. ‘Who was it that hid your splendour, Princess?’

‘My mother is the Maiden Officiant of the High Temple of Kwiriki.’

‘Ah, yes. My daughter had the pleasure of meeting her. May I present Lady Nikeya?’

The spy bowed. ‘Unora,’ she said warmly as she straightened. ‘How good to see you again.’

The River Lord laughed from his chest. ‘Daughter,’ he said, the picture of amused surprise, ‘what can you be saying? This is Princess Dumai.’

Lady Nikeya opened her mouth in mock astonishment. Dumai tried not to grit her teeth.

‘Father. Forgive me,’ Lady Nikeya said demurely. ‘Only . . . when I met Princess Dumai on Mount Ipyeda, I thought she told me her name was Unora. Perhaps I misheard.’

Dumai glanced at her father, who had not uttered a word during this exchange.

‘How unusual,’ the River Lord said. ‘You must indeed have misheard. After all, there is no reason the princess should have tried to hide her true name. Is there?’

‘My daughter has had a long journey,’ Emperor Jorodu broke in, ‘and is too tired for questions, River Lord. There will be many opportunities to speak with her in future.’

‘Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive your servant his enthusiasm.’ With that faultless smile, the River Lord bowed low. ‘Please, Princess, rest. And welcome, once again, to Antuma Palace.’

Without waiting for a dismissal, he strode away. Lady Nikeya smirked at Dumai, who looked back with as much dislike as she could muster with her eyes alone, before following her father.

****

Dumai had been assigned twelve attendants, including Osipa. Fortunately, Lady Nikeya was not among them, but from what Taporo had told her, at least half of them reported to the River Lord. Dressed in the same evening blue as the roof, they followed Dumai into the Rain Pavilion – a section of the enclosed Inner Palace, where the imperial family resided.

‘Kwiriki’s tears, why is it so cold in here?’ Osipa asked the nearest woman, who was tall and wore a tart expression. ‘Do you mean for the princess to freeze in her sleep?’

‘It is autumn,’ the woman pointed out, her tone as frigid as the wind. ‘Autumn is cold.’

‘Swords are sharp, yet we take steps to prevent them cutting us,’ came the brusque reply. ‘It was warmer than this on the highest mountain in the province. Stop pouting and make yourself useful, if that concept is familiar to you. Bring in another two braziers.’

With a stiff nod, the woman motioned to three of the other attendants, who left.

The building held a bedchamber and a withdrawing room, enclosed by a single corridor. Dumai walked along it. The windows had hinged shutters, pushed wide open, so only fine screens swayed in the breeze. When she reached for one, the women were ahead of her.

‘Allow me, Princess Dumai.’

The screen was rolled up and tied in place.

‘The Floating Gardens,’ said the attendant beside her. She looked no more than fifteen. ‘Are they not lovely?’

The north side stood in still greenish water, which spread as far as the eye could see, reflecting every cloud like a mirror. Low islands arched from it, joined by bridges, each island holding beauty: a stone lantern, a statue, an ornate pavilion. Dumai looked west, and there was Mount Ipyeda. Just as she had hoped, she could see it.

‘They say the great Kwiriki himself made these gardens,’ one of the ladies remarked. ‘It was once a deep lake, but he drank enough of its water that thirty islands appeared.’

‘The Crown Prince would swim every day,’ the young girl said. Her cheeks were pink. ‘He was very clever. We are sorry for your loss, Princess. That you never met your brothers.’

‘Thank you.’ Dumai stepped back. ‘I wish to be alone with Lady Osipa. Please, do as you wish today.’

The chilly woman said, ‘The Rain Pavilion is where we live, Princess. We are here to—’

‘Do you have floss in your ears?’ Osipa snapped at her. The younger attendants jumped. ‘Princess Dumai has given you an order. It is not your place to question her. Fetch some wood for the braziers, air the bedding, stand idle. Whatever you do, do not do it here.’

‘And when should we return?’ the woman asked coolly.

‘When you are summoned.’ As soon as they were gone, Osipa said, ‘Come into the antechamber, Dumai.’

Inside it, Dumai looked about. Osipa used a hook on a short pole to lower its screens.

‘We will not often be able to speak here,’ she said. ‘They will always be close.’ She faced Dumai. ‘The gift from your sister. Where is it?’

Dumai handed the box over. Osipa looked at the headpiece inside it, her fingers stiff on the latch. ‘I will drop it into a well,’ she muttered. ‘An identical replacement will be made.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I trust no one here.’ Osipa slipped it into her robes. ‘The River Lord is likely to use Suzumai against you. Armour your heart. She is the greatest threat to your throne.’

‘Her throne. Which I am going to take.’

‘Did you not listen to your cousin?’ Osipa said impatiently. ‘This is how the Kuposa work. If the throne passes to a child, it is theirs.’ Her eyes were hard. ‘This palace is now a battlefield. Emperor Jorodu and the River Lord are the generals. You and Suzumai are their weapons.’

‘I am no man’s weapon,’ Dumai said, nettled.

‘Then work harder. Be your own general.’

She lowered herself onerously to the mats. Dumai helped her. ‘There is something I never asked Lady Taporo,’ Dumai said, kneeling at her side. ‘Who rules after me, if not Suzumai?’

Osipa glanced towards the blinds, just thin enough to see through. ‘Ideally,’ she said, ‘you would have your own child. Take a consort as far away as possible from Kuposa influence.’

‘And if I don’t, or can’t?’

‘Then we shall find a minor Noziken to put on the throne.’

‘Who?’ Dumai said, despairing. ‘How many are left with the blood of the rainbow?’

‘Very few. You do have distant cousins still living,’ Osipa added, ‘though I can’t imagine they have half a stomach between them, or they would already have come to support your father. Still, they could be an option . . . if a better one does not present itself.’

Dumai had never even considered the possibility of having a child.

‘I want to go home,’ she said.

Osipa snorted in disgust. ‘And give up the fight?’ she said. ‘I think not. Kwiriki himself enthroned your line, Noziken pa Dumai. Do you mean to stop serving him now?’

A long time passed. Outside, birds chirruped in the Floating Gardens.

‘No,’ Dumai said. ‘Not now, or ever.’