A Day of Fallen Night (The Roots of Chaos)

The sea crashed into Inys like a fist, spelks of white spray flying where it struck ancient rock. Beneath a clean blue sky, gulls filled the air with brabbling, striped sails billowed and snapped in the wind, and Wulfert Glenn watched golden sunlight flit between the waves.

Ahead, Inys waited.

The bowsprit pointed at the firth that would take the Longstride inland. Wulf drank in the cliffs that flanked it. Looming in both directions as far as the eye could see, they stood straight and black as iron swords, rusted with lichen, proud custodians of the queendom.

A humpback breached close to the ship. Most of the crew were hardened to the sight of whales, but it still made Wulf smile to see its fin rise, as if in welcome. He clasped his hands on the side and kept watching. Pine tar was bedded under his nails and the tang of sweat clung to his undershirt, but every housecarl could thole such discomforts.

Soon, for the first time in three years, he would be home.

Boots thumped across the deck. Regny came to stand beside him, smelling of damp wool, like everyone on the ship.

‘Home at last,’ she said. ‘Ready?’

‘Aye.’ Wulf glanced at her. ‘You’re not.’

‘You know Inys bores me. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

She patted his back and strode on, her braid swinging from the intricate knotwork that overlaid it at the base of her skull.

The Longstride forged past a fire tower. By the time the ship reached the cliffs, the sun had more gold than silver in it.

‘Wulfert.’

A booming voice snapped him to attention. He had been so immersed in the sights, he had failed to hear the king approach.

‘Sire.’ He touched a fist to his chest. ‘I hear we’re almost to Werstuth.’

Bardholt stepped up to the wale with a grin and placed his enormous hands on it. Wulf was tall and strong, but the King of Hróth was a mountain, enlarged by the white pelt he wore.

‘A fine voyage. The Saint is good.’ His golden hair lay oiled and heavy on his shoulders. ‘Did I not swear upon his shield that I would see my daughter’s commendation?’

‘You did, my king.’

‘I have missed Glorian terribly. My queen gave me a perfect daughter.’ He spoke Hróthi with a deep rural accent. ‘While we celebrate, you shall be my cupbearer, Wulfert.’

Only the most trusted and respected members of the household ever received such a privilege. Wulf breathed out. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘it is too great an honour for your humble retainer.’

‘Honour is an axe with two blades. Should anyone try to poison me, you’ll be the one to ascend to Halgalant.’

Wulf cracked a smile at that. King Bardholt clapped him on the back, with such vigour it almost knocked him overboard.

‘You must visit your family, while we’re here,’ he said. ‘Are they all still at Langarth?’

‘Aye, my king.’

‘Good. Stay for the commendation, then go to them for a day or two. Regny will pour my wine in your absence – by the Saint, she can outdrink us all.’

‘That is true.’

‘Is it also true that you’ve been trysting with her?’

Wulf looked slowly at the king, silenced by trepidation. Bardholt raised his thick eyebrows.

‘Certain people keep me abreast of the small intrigues that unfold in my household. Even in the coops,’ he said. ‘Someone reported you, Wulf.’

Saint, when he kills me, grant me the mercy of a swift and painless death.

‘I never knew you were fond of gossip, my king,’ Wulf said, once he could speak.

It was a dangerous move, but it paid off. Bardholt respected boldness.

‘Even a king can grow weary of politics,’ he said, the corner of his mouth flinching. ‘I was young once, Wulf – I understand – but that was before I knew the Saint. My housecarls must set an example, to ensure all Hróthi respect the Six Virtues. Before you bed anyone else, a love-knot ring must be on their finger. And you know you cannot put one on hers.’

Wulf glanced towards Regny. She was leaning against the mast, hair windblown, sharing a horn of wine with Eydag.

She was the heir of the late Skiri Longstride – Skiri the Condoler, who had welcomed Bardholt and his family when they were forced to flee their village, and whose murder had started the War of Twelve Shields. When Regny was wed, it would be to a fellow chieftain.

‘It set with the midnight sun,’ Wulf said quietly. ‘On my oath, it won’t happen again, sire.’

‘Good man.’ Bardholt gave him a last pat on the back. ‘We shall talk again soon. Find a sanctuary, clear your conscience with the Knight of Fellowship, and let us feast and sing.’

He strode towards Regny, who remained expressionless. As the rightful Chieftain of Askrdal, she would receive a sterner reproach, though Bardholt would forgive her.

Wulf looked back at the sea, but his sense of peace had deserted him. With a sigh through his nose, he steepled his fingers on the wale and watched for the first sight of the city on the cliffs.

****

Glorian had not expected to be formally introduced to the world with one arm in plaster, but at least it saved her having to dance with every noble stripling in the West. She let her broken arm hang out of the water, feeling rather like a doll.

Her bathing chamber was her favourite part of the castle. It overlooked the queenswood of the Fells, the only province in Inys with real mountains. The shutters had been opened, letting in golden sunlight and a breeze, and water steamed in the wooden tub, which was lined and tented with white linen. It had been a gift from King Bardholt, made from snow pine, so Glorian could pretend she was basking in the hot pools of Hróth.

‘I can’t bear this wretched thing.’ She rubbed at her cast. ‘When will the itching stop?’

‘Next time, try not to fall off a horse,’ Julain said.

‘Is that the sort of counsel you mean to give me when I’m queen?’

‘I mean to always tell you when you do foolish things.’

Outside, a wren twittered. The linen shaded Glorian, while a small fire kept the chill away. Julain kneaded her scalp. Adela pared her nails. Helisent cleansed her face with rose oil. When she was Queen of Inys, they would be her Ladies of the Great Chamber.

Julain Crest – the eldest – had been her playmate when they were children. The holy descendants of the Knight of Justice, the Crest family had always held enormous influence as courtiers. Queen Sabran was one of the few rulers who did not have a Crest as her First Lady.

Helisent Beck was heir apparent of the Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch. The Becks claimed descent from Edrig of Arondine, closest friend and mentor of the Saint. She was sixteen and as tall as Glorian.

Youngest of them, at fifteen, was Adeliza afa Dáura, daughter of the Mistress of the Robes. She was minor Yscali nobility, her mother the eldest child of a hereditary knight.

‘We should test your knowledge,’ Julain said to Glorian. ‘Who is the Decreer of Carmentum?’

‘Carmenti leaders conceal their true names when they run for election, both to protect their families and to ensure their campaigns are based only on their politics,’ Glorian said, making Julain nod her approval, ‘but her tenure name is Numun. She will bring one of her advisors, Arpa Nerafriss, who often serves as her envoy.’

‘I am never going to understand why Queen Sabran would invite a pair of republicans,’ Adela said crossly.

‘Precisely because the Carmenti are dangerous.’ Julain poured from a jug, rinsing the suds away. She had such careful hands that Glorian never had to blink. ‘A country that breaks the rudder of monarchy will swing wildly and crash into others, hurling all into disorder.’

‘Aye,’ Helisent said. ‘Her Grace must think it best to keep close watch on their folly.’

‘Well, I think they will spoil the commendation.’ Adela trimmed another nail. ‘We should refuse to receive them until they send tribute to the House of Berethnet, which shields them from the Nameless One.’ Another slice took the white clean off. ‘They should be grateful we don’t crush them, as King Bardholt crushed the Northern heathens.’

‘The Knight of Courage has lent you his lance today, Adela,’ Glorian said, amused. ‘I think you would march to war with Carmentum.’ She took her hand back. ‘And that, in your passion, you might relieve me of a finger.’

‘Indeed,’ a new voice said. ‘Be cautious, Adeliza. My daughter is already injured.’

Julain dropped the comb into the water with a gasp. She stepped down to stand beside Helisent and Adela, and they all curtseyed, heads low.

‘Your Grace,’ they chorused.

The Queen of Inys stood in the doorway, arrayed in an elegant black gown, cut to show off a pair of white undersleeves. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ she said, gentler. ‘Leave us, please.’

‘Your Grace,’ they said again, Adela with a furious blush. As they filed out, Julain reached up to grasp the handle and pull the door closed in their wake, shooting Glorian a look that said courage.

Glorian sank up to her neck, wishing she could draw her arm under. There was something absurd about the way it hung from the bathtub, proof of her failure to stay on a horse.

‘Glorian,’ her mother said. ‘I am sorry to disturb you while you bathe. I am in council for the rest of today, making final arrangements for your commendation. Now is the only time we can speak.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Doctor Forthard has kept me abreast of your condition. I trust you are not in much pain.’

‘A little,’ Glorian said. ‘At night, especially.’

‘It will pass. Doctor Forthard tells me you will only need to wear the cast for a month or two.’

Queen Sabran gazed out of the window. The sunlight turned her eyes to raw emerald. Glorian hunched deeper into the water, hiding behind her black curtains of hair.

In every conversation with her mother, there were snares. Each time, she leapt headfirst and trapped herself. Her first mistake had been confessing the pain. Her mother did not like admissions of weakness.

‘I will be well for tomorrow,’ Glorian said quickly. ‘I will dance one-handed, Mother, if you wish.’

‘And what would people say of the Queen of Inys if she forced her daughter to dance with a broken arm?’

There was her second mistake. ‘That she was cruel and unfeeling,’ Glorian said, cheeks hot. ‘Like the Malkin Queen.’

‘Precisely.’ At last, her mother deigned to look at her. ‘I will be frank. Tomorrow is not only your introduction as an eligible princess, but a display of strength and unity. For the first time, our country will host a delegation from a so-called republic.’

‘Carmentum.’

‘Yes. The Carmenti must see that absolute monarchy remains the only true and righteous way to govern a country. We cannot allow Inys, like Carmentum, to be thrown like fodder to the people, who will tear it apart with their conflicting opinions. There can only be one will that governs – the will of the Saint, who speaks through us.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Glorian said meekly. ‘I will not disappoint you.’ She hesitated before asking, ‘Why did you invite the Carmenti here?’

‘Arpa Nerafriss sent me a letter, asking if I would consider opening trade negotiations. The Carmenti are athirst for our support. They want older, stronger countries to recognise their rule.’ Queen Sabran raised her chin. ‘Inys is small. We must remain open to the world. Through Yscalin, Mentendon and Hróth, we trade with the Ersyr, with Lasia – even with the Easterners across the Abyss, whose ways are unknown to us.’

The Abyss. The great black sea, so wide and full of monsters that few had crossed it and returned. King Bardholt had sailed on it before, but not far. Even he was wary of it.

‘In any case,’ Queen Sabran continued, hauling Glorian back to her own side of the world, ‘the Carmenti have no power against the Chainmail of Virtudom. Your commendation seemed a fitting time to show them.’

Glorian felt a surge of admiration then. It was thanks to her mother that Inys would stand firm against the tide of republican feeling in Carmentum. Before her parents’ marriage, there had only been two countries pledged to the Saint. Now there were four.

‘I need not tell you, Glorian, that you will also meet potential consorts at the dance,’ Queen Sabran said. ‘There will be representatives of noble families from across Virtudom. We must keep our links strong.’

A chill squirmed in Glorian, as if an adder had crept down her throat and curled up in her belly.

‘I don’t want—’ When Queen Sabran looked at her, Glorian drew her knees up to her chest. ‘Must I marry so soon?’

‘Of course not. Fifteen is not old enough to be wed,’ her mother reminded her, ‘but we might arrange a suitable precontract. You must be gracious and courteous towards every suitor, even if dancing is out of the question. You must behave like the blood of the Saint.’

‘Yes, Mother. I promise I will be a credit to him.’ Glorian peeked up at her. ‘And to you.’

For a fleeting instant, her mother almost softened. Her lips parted, her brow smoothed, and she started to lift a hand, as if to touch Glorian on the cheek.

Then she clasped her fingers again, and she was once more a statue, a queen.

‘I will see you on the morrow,’ she said. ‘And Glorian . . . we will speak about your riding soon.’

She left without a backward glance. Glorian rested her brow on her knees and wished herself all the way to the East.